


The Sins of the Father

by Eireann



Series: Good Intentions [3]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Gen, Moral Dilemmas, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: Follow up to 'The Road to Hell'.  Strictly AU, as is its precursor.
Captain Jean-Luc Picard is having rather a dull morning.  So the news of a superficially rather unimportant event comes as a welcome change...





	1. Picard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ken with gratitude](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ken+with+gratitude).



> Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no money made.
> 
> Author's note 1: I have deliberately chosen not to use the archive warnings, for the sake of the plot, but I don't think anything contained in this story will be seriously offensive to anyone.
> 
> Author's note 2: TNG readers please note: My writing up till now has been set in the Star Trek: Enterprise universe. This story should hopefully stand up in its own right, but anyone interested in reading the precursor to it can find it among my other works.
> 
> Author's note 3: As this is my first foray into TNG, of which I haven't even watched every episode, I hope readers will excuse any errors in characterisation as beginner's inexpertise.
> 
> Author's note 4: The title is the same as that of an actual TNG episode (I only found this out 24 hours ago!) but it bears absolutely no other relation to that episode or the storyline it contains.

* * *

The face of duty is occasionally grim.

For much of the time, however, it is simply tedious, and it was this face that Captain Jean-Luc Picard was seeing as he sat at his desk that morning going through the daily reports.

Viewing reports is one of the basic functions of a ship’s captain’s life.  He was perfectly well aware of that fact – and usually quite resigned to it, if seldom actually enthusiastic.  He applied to it his usual stern discipline, and that got the job done.  That, after all, was what mattered.

It would probably have been easier had he not been aware of the presence in his inbox of the latest journal from the senior archaeological team studying the history of Tagus III.  It was a subject dear to his heart; and although to date the Taguans seemed determined to maintain their refusal to allow foreign visitors to partake in any of the ongoing excavations, still the native archaeologists occasionally released teasing fragments of their discoveries to whet the appetite of those eager to learn more.

He had made the mistake of allowing himself just the smallest glance at the header of the journal when he logged on to his computer that morning. Unfortunately, rather than being the dry summary of the contents that usually appeared, it had hinted – yes, definitely _more_ than hinted – that there had been thrilling revelations from Tagus III.

The temptation to open it _immediately_ had been almost irresistible.  It had taken all the discipline in his soul to turn away and navigate to the waiting ship’s reports instead; and to have to plough through the minutiae of the latest requirements to be added to the revictualling schedule on their next visit to a starbase instead of feasting his eyes on the newest relics to have emerged from the current investigation was really rather hard.

So it was not altogether unwelcome when a call from the Bridge interrupted his dutiful perusal. _“Riker to the Captain.”_

“What is it, Number One?”

_“Our long-range sensors have discovered a planet with a malfunctioning satellite, sir.”_

Jean-Luc frowned.  There must be more to it than that.  However, at least it would get him away from the revictualling reports for a while.

He rose from his desk, automatically tugged his uniform into order, and walked out on to the Bridge.

Data was at the helm, and turned to him as he entered.  Evidently the android perceived the slightly perplexed quality of his captain’s interrogative look, for the explanation was not slow in coming.

“There is no record of the planet being inhabited, sir, or indeed any mention of it at all in any of the Federation records.  I am at a loss to explain why it should have an artificial satellite in orbit, but whatever the reason, I estimate that within six hours and seventeen minutes the satellite will enter the planet’s atmosphere and be destroyed.”

“Has the system been mapped?”

Data’s gaze unfocused for a fraction of a second while he consulted his memory storage.  “That area of the quadrant is largely deserted, sir, but there are records going back to early Starfleet exploration.  Certain sections of these appear to have been deliberately erased.”

“‘Erased’?” Will was on to the word like a terrier.

“Yes, sir.”

_Enterprise_ ’s First Officer frowned, and Jean-Luc mirrored the expression. 

It was a fairly small affair.  An unknown satellite crashing on an unknown and uninhabited planet was hardly the stuff of world-shattering events.  Nevertheless...

...Revictualling reports were not _stupendously_ interesting.

“Set a course, Mister Data.” 

Lieutenant Worf was in his usual place at the Security Station.  He looked as though he might be about to speak, and the captain paused before taking his seat, but the Klingon evidently decided that whatever remark he had been about to make was inconsequential after all, and the moment passed.

On the viewscreen the starscape shifted and elongated into streaks once more as _Enterprise_ changed course and set off to investigate.


	2. Picard

Data had evidently calculated the ship’s speed to ensure she arrived before the satellite suffered damage.  The external cameras closed in on the object, which was already showing the first signs of heating up as it encountered the edge of the atmosphere, but was still largely intact.

“Any identification?” asked Jean-Luc.

Worf consulted his scanners.  “There are no identifying markings.  But I am detecting the presence of an old subspace transmitter, which appears to have malfunctioned.”

“The satellite itself appears to be made largely of a duranium alloy,” Data added.  “Its configuration is unfamiliar, but it is not unlike a type in common use on Earth in the twenty-second century.”

The mystery was deepening.

“Lock on with a tractor beam,” ordered the captain.  “I’d like to find out more about this ... mysterious satellite.”

For the next few minutes the ship precisely matched the orbit of the tiny object held in the pencil of light that was the tractor beam, while the scanners built up a more exact picture of its structure and inner workings.  As Chief Engineer, Lieutenant La Forge was summoned to lend his expertise to the examination of the results.

“Beats me, sir,” he said, when the Bridge officers convened in the conference room.  “I agree, the evidence points to it being constructed sometime in the twenty-second century, and there are enough clues in the design for me to guess it’s from Earth.  But there’s no evidence of who put it here or why.”

Worf was present, and the captain noted once again that he shifted uncomfortably.  This time, however, the action seemed so marked that it was impossible to ignore.  “Do you have any knowledge that may have any bearing on this, Lieutenant?”

It was difficult to be completely sure, but a look of some embarrassment crossed the officer’s face.  “It ... it is something ...”  He exhaled.  “It is a legend.”

“A _Klingon_ _legend_?” Riker looked surprised, as well he might.

Worf nodded shortly.  He seemed reluctant to continue, but intercepting the captain’s encouraging inclination of the head, he went on.  “This planet’s star is visible from Khitomer, where I was brought up.  It is faint, but it is part of one of our constellations.  Its name is Hir’vaQ, which means ‘Wolf’s Eye’, and the constellation is that of the Wolf.

“In children’s tales it has an ill name.  It is said to shine on _Vo’paht kalTaJapk_ , the World of Lost Souls.”

Eyebrows rose around the table.

“It is nonsense, of course,” the Klingon continued somewhat defensively.  “There is no such place.  It is a tale for children, nothing more.”  He hesitated, and then added, “Klingons are more than just warriors, Captain.  We too have our stories, our literature, our mythologies – even though it is no longer considered honourable to be a scholar, as it was in the old days.”

“Very poetic,” commented Counsellor Troi, with a faint, approving smile.

“There is something my scans have revealed, sir.” Data spoke up in the tiny pause that followed.  “There is an unidentified phenomenon occupying part of this solar system.  I am unable to explain it, but this planet’s orbit would take it through it for some considerable time.  I believe that inside it, light would bend – rendering the planet invisible in its actual location, but possibly producing a visual image of it elsewhere.  That might account for the planet acquiring a strange reputation.”

“Would that effect scanners too, though?” asked La Forge dubiously.

“I would need to examine the phenomenon in more detail before I could answer that question.”  He sounded almost apologetic.  “But I would suggest that until we have more information, we should not risk taking the ship inside it.  There may be other side effects.  Fortunately, it will be several more days before the planet approaches it.”

Jean-Luc nodded briskly.  “Make it so.  Data, make it a priority to find out what this ‘phenomenon’ may consist of.  Lieutenant–” He glanced at Geordi – “continue the work on the satellite.”

The two officers rose and left the room.  Riker paused a second but, clearly seeing that there were no further orders forthcoming, followed them.

Worf lingered.  He looked uncomfortable.  “Sir–.”

“I appreciate that it was not easy for you to provide that _additional_ information on the mythological aspect of this star, Lieutenant,” the captain said quietly.  “In the circumstances, I see no reason for it to be included in Starfleet records.”

The Klingon’s tense expression eased.  With a brief, appreciative nod he left the conference room too, leaving only counsellor and captain still seated at the table.

Deanna’s smile was knowing.  “You’re intrigued by the mystery.”

“Indeed.”  He smiled back at her.  “But isn’t that the reason we’re out here?  To explore all the mysteries we find?”

“Even one as small as an old satellite.”

“In orbit around a planet that disappears for part of its year.”

Her eyes danced.  “I can see why that would appeal.”

“I’m only glad we came in time.  A few more hours, and this ‘old satellite’ would have burned up in the atmosphere, and we’d never have had the chance to investigate it.  And if we hadn’t come to look at it, we might never have discovered this ‘phenomenon’ Data mentioned.  I’m inclined to take advantage of what Fate’s sent us.” He laid both his hands on the table, pleased by the coincidence.  Even without making any reference to Klingon legends in its reports, it seemed possible that _Enterprise_ might be on the brink of making another intriguing scientific discovery.

=/\=

“All scans complete.”

The schematic of the satellite was open to view.  It was simple enough, clearly a communications beacon constructed to broadcast the contents of the transmitter it carried.

“We’ve found a couple of symbols,” Geordi went on, pointing as high-res photographs appeared on the viewscreen.  “The panels they were on were originally polished down, but we’ve managed to enhance what was left, enough for a computer to identify three of them.  This thing was definitely made on Earth.  Those are Arabic numerals.

“The alloy confirms it.  It was in use for most of the twenty-second century and some of the twenty-third.”  He paused.  “Particularly by Starfleet.  It was too expensive for widespread commercial use.”

“But according to Data, there’s no record of this particular satellite in Starfleet records,” mused Riker.

“I would suggest, Captain, that our only recourse if we wish to establish the purpose of this satellite is to retrieve the transmitter.”  Data spoke simply.  “It appears to be relatively undamaged.  If we bring it on board, it should be possible to reactivate it, and then we will have the answers to at least one of our questions.  Perhaps when we know the _why_ of its presence, we may be able to make a reasonable guess at _who._ ”

“Going on what we’ve found out about it, frankly I’d be worried about subjecting it to the stresses of actually dragging it,” the chief engineer added.  “This thing is _old._ It’s taken meteorite damage, which probably took out some kind of solar sail and the control unit.  By the looks of it, quite a few other bits had already fallen off, and the heat stress and our tractor beam aren’t helping.”

Data nodded.  “I anticipate no undue risk in a retrieval operation while we lend the satellite sufficient support to prevent its orbit decaying any further.  But the time factor is narrowing, sir.  If we are to act, we should act soon.”

“Then let’s get on with it.” Jean-Luc motioned permission to leave.

By now all their curiosity was thoroughly piqued.  Scans of the still relatively distant phenomenon – primarily detectable by fluctuations in the movement of stellar radiation in its vicinity – had still revealed little of its nature, but that could wait.  The satellite, however, had a very finite life expectancy.

It took little time for the android to don an EV suit to enable him to reach the satellite.  He needed no oxygen tanks of course, but it was wise to protect him from radiation and stray particles, as well as from the bitter cold of hard vacuum; and, of course, he had to maintain communication with _Enterprise_.

His exit from the ship – now as close to the satellite as was deemed safe – was accomplished without fuss.  The glare from Hir’vaQ, a brilliant blue-white star, would provide ample illumination for his work.  From his seat on the Bridge, the captain watched via the external cameras as the tiny pulses from the manoeuvring jets moved the small, lonely figure steadily towards the ancient hulk, pitted by space dust and small meteorite impacts.   It was now clearly visible that part of its superstructure had been ripped away, and the torn arms that had held it reached out blindly, jagged and empty.

It took some work to get into the innards of the badly-battered machine.  For the most part Data worked in silence, though now and again he would report calmly on his progress.  Finally he reached the transmitter itself.  It was securely seated, but not proof against a determined android.  Presently he pushed himself gently away from the satellite, the transmitter held safely in his arms.

The return to the ship was again accomplished without event.  As soon as Data was back on board, Jean-Luc retired resignedly to his Ready Room to immerse himself in the reports again, confident that as soon as there was anything to report, he would be notified.


	3. Picard

“A warning beacon?”

It wasn’t entirely unexpected.  It was a standard enough explanation for the presence of that simple old satellite, left there to warn unwary visitors of some unknown danger down there on the lush surface of the planet below.

Nevertheless, the content of the transmission was revealing.  Data informed the captain (and Will Riker, who had been summoned into the Ready Room to hear the results of the investigation) that the number of alien languages posted pointed to a relatively small acquaintance with the stellar community; so small, indeed, that he would place the compilation quite close to the start of the twenty-second century. 

Geordi had also appropriated part of the transmitter’s casing to test, confirming his earlier opinion of its composition.  This was now found to match almost exactly the standard in use by Starfleet and its affiliates at the time.

“A warning beacon, made on Earth and not listed in Starfleet records,” said Riker, frowning.

“There were numerous intelligence and counter-intelligence agencies in operation at that time, Number One.”  Jean-Luc sat back in his chair, studying the battered transmitter thoughtfully.  “Does the text of the message say what exactly what the danger consists of?”

“No, sir.” Data used his voice simulator programme to reproduce the message faithfully.  “‘Warning to all ships. This planet’s atmosphere contains toxins hostile to intelligent life.  Do not land.’”  The male voice spoke English with a mid-American accent.  “I have already run it through the voice recognition programmes, captain.  It is not the voice of an individual, but a composite, created by a sophisticated technique to create an apparently genuine vocal sequence.”

“No recognition.”

A shake of the head.  “The same goes for the remainder of the messages.  They are all artificially created.”

“And have you managed to identify this ‘toxin’ the message refers to?”

“No, sir.  I had already carried out quite exhaustive tests on the planetary atmosphere, and I have confirmed my original findings.  I can find no toxin that occurs in any of the scientific databases.”  He paused; his programming included deft touches of Human speech nuance.  “However, there _is_ a compound present in the lower atmosphere that has psychotropic qualities.”

“So someone who visited the planet a long time ago might have identified it incorrectly?” asked Riker.

“That is possible, sir,” Data admitted.  “Its effects would be slow, but they would be cumulative and long-lasting.  Prolonged exposure would result in psychological trauma, possibly incurable.”

“I’d like you to investigate this with Doctor Pulaski, Data.  She may be able to provide some insight.  In the meantime–”

_“Lieutenant Worf to Captain Picard.”_

“Picard here.”

_“Captain.  I have been carrying out scans of the planet, and I have discovered the remains of a vessel.  It appears to have crashed many years ago.”_

The three men in the Ready Room looked at each other in surprise. “I’m on my way.  Picard out.”

They returned to the Bridge, where on command Worf brought up the image on to the main viewer.

The growth of lush woodland around it had rendered the small craft all but invisible from above.  Computer-enhanced imagery now revealed a more accurate picture of what did, indeed, appear to be wreckage.

Data returned to his own scanners.  “Initial indications are that it is of a similar composition to the satellite,” he reported.  “The size suggests a small shuttlepod.  I would imagine it was a freighter-shuttle.  One of its fins is still relatively intact, and resembles that of a type in common use in the 2100’s.”

“Captain!” Worf had been studying more reports from the Tactical Station.  He broke in now, sounding agitated, and his next words explained why.  “There is a Human on the planet!”

=/\=

 _“What?”_ Will Riker looked incredulous.

“I have double-checked my scans!”

Looking as amazed as it was possible for an android to look, Data swivelled back to his own scanners. “Correct, Captain.  Approximately one point four kilometres from the crash site.  There is a cave system there, and presumably he has been inside it up till now.  The rock in that area is extremely dense.  It could possibly have hidden him from our scanners.”

“Definitely _Human?_ ” pressed Will.

“Yes, sir.  But the life signs are very faint.”

“Organise a rescue, on the double!” ordered Jean-Luc.  “Have them beamed aboard.  But have security and a medical team standing by.”  He thought, but did not say, that any hapless person stranded down there for any length of time must by now have fallen victim to the effects of that psychotropic and must be kept under the firmest control while Katherine examined them.  It went equally without saying that the doctor would do her utmost to help the poor soul; but what exactly should be done if even her medical expertise failed was a problem he would address if and when he must.

“Yes, sir.” Worf gave the necessary orders.

“Mister Worf, see what you can find out about that crashed vessel.  Mister Data, you have the Bridge.” Will, the captain knew, would be consumed by the same curiosity as he was himself.  They would both want to see for themselves who or what was brought up from the planet below.  Data – fortunately or unfortunately – did not experience that most human of emotions, impatience.

The security team was arriving at the double as he and his XO exited the turbo-lift.  Katherine was approaching from the opposite direction, her comely face alert and concerned. “What’s happening, Captain?”

He gave her the bare gist of the facts, but Commander O’Brien already had the co-ordinates programmed in and was standing by for the order to transport.  Not without a twinge of apprehension, Jean-Luc gave it.

The transporter lights glowed.  Over one of the pads the familiar incandescent cascade formed the shape of a human being, and as the brilliance faded the shape solidified into a hunched form that crumpled to the floor.


	4. Picard

He was small, and very old. His body lay on the bio-bed like a bundle of sticks, clad in ill-cured hides.

His hair was mostly grey. As Katherine prepared whatever medication she deemed necessary, Crewman Asenzi gently smoothed the tangled locks back from the withered face. It had some Asian features, but the high fine cheekbones were Caucasian.

He was so old that it seemed laughable – or pitiable – to have put him in restraints; however, if he struggled he might injure himself, so he was strapped down quite firmly. The outlines were visible under the soft blue covers lending him additional warmth.

Deanna had arrived, and stood beside the captain. Her large eyes gazed sorrowfully at the stranger. “All alone! How long has he been down there?”

“Who knows? Perhaps when he regains consciousness we may find out. We may even be able to arrange for him to be returned home.”

“Wherever ‘home’ is,” interjected Katherine, applying the hypospray to the base of her new patient’s neck. “He may not even be capable of communicating with us.”

Jean-Luc looked at her with concern. “The psychotropic?”

She nodded. “However long he’s been down there, I see little prospect of meaningful recovery, Captain. I’m not even sure we did the right thing by bringing him up here. This will be traumatic for him.”

“But we may still be able to win his trust,” Deanna argued. “And at least we have the possibility of finding out who he is. There may be family, distant relatives, who’ve never known where he went. At least if we can give them closure....”

Katherine sighed. “I’m keeping him sedated while I run some more tests. I’ll give him some medication that may help him when he wakes, but he’s very frail. To be honest, I doubt if he’ll survive much longer.”

“Then maybe all we can do for him is to let him die in comfort,” said Riker soberly. “And at least he won’t die all alone.”

“I leave it to your judgement, Doctor. Call me when you have any news. And – Counsellor Troi has a point regarding his relatives. If we can trace them via his DNA, they may well be glad to have word of him.”

“I’ll get on to it straight away, Captain.”

As he and Will left Sickbay, Jean-Luc contemplated how his XO had matured during the course of the voyage. Time had been when Riker wouldn’t even have thought how much it mattered for a man to die among his own. It was yet another confirmation that he’d been right to choose him to be his second aboard Enterprise, and a pointer to the fact that the time surely couldn’t be far off when he’d be ready to have a command of his own. He had an enormous affection and respect for Will, who stood to him not perhaps in the light of the son he’d never had, but at least in that of a younger brother, a fine, strong man who he was sure would one day rank among Starfleet’s finest captains.

“Do you think there’s much chance of discovering relatives?” Riker asked presently, as they stepped into the turbo-lift to return to the Bridge. 

“We can but try.” The captain shrugged. “It shouldn’t take long to map his DNA, and then the computer can do a search. Sixty years, seventy perhaps ... surely somebody from even one side of his family should be contactable.”

“And we solve a family mystery.” He smiled at the thought. “Not exactly the sort of discoveries I’d imagined us making out here.”

“There are worse achievements, Will.” The reports were still beckoning; endless reports. With a sigh, Jean-Luc headed once again for his Ready Room. 


	5. Pulaski / Picard

The soft chirrup from the monitor sounded in the quiet of Sickbay.

Katherine had been sifting through the remoter reaches of the toxicology databases in hope that she might turn up something that might be useful in combating the chemicals in the stranger’s brain, though she was all too well aware that it was probably wasted effort.  It was not a cocktail she had ever personally encountered, though she was aware of the properties of the individual substances from various avenues of past reading and study, but now she was concentrating on analysing its combined workings in detail her preliminary findings were not encouraging.

Abandoning her computer screen, she rose and walked quietly to the occupied bio-bed.

The man on it was waking.  His head moved, and he whimpered softly. 

She touched his shoulder gently, hoping to reassure him.  “Hush.  You’re quite safe.”

His eyes snapped open.  The irises were the colour of storm clouds.

And he _snarled._

=/\=

“Fear.” Deanna Troi glanced across the room at the bed’s occupant.  “Captain, he’s terrified.  He doesn’t understand who we are or where he is.”

Jean-Luc tried not to follow her gaze automatically.  It had quickly become apparent that the old man hated being looked at, and the more people who did so the more agitated he became.  Only when he felt himself to be unobserved did he relax even a little, and even then his chest vibrated to a succession of low, warning growls.

“At least I could do one thing for him,” Katherine commented.  “He was losing his sight.  Macular degeneration.  I treated it before he regained consciousness.”

The captain lifted an eyebrow.  “Treatment without consent, Doctor?”

She sighed.  “If I’d thought there was any hope of getting his consent, Captain, I’d have waited and asked for it.”  With a second, heavier sigh she turned away and brought up a screen on the desk monitor.  “This is his genetic code.  I’ve tried to find a match in the Missing Persons files, going back over a hundred years. Nothing.”

“More mystery,” remarked Will.

“But he’s definitely human.  And there’s one thing I found that I think you should see.”  Moving slowly, she crossed to the bed.  The others followed her, staying back a little to reduce the apparent threat.  The growls from the prisoner increased in volume, his yellowed teeth showing.  His eyes watched her malignantly.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Her voice was soothing, but it had no visible effect.  As her hand reached towards his chest, he lunged at her.  The snick of his teeth closing on empty air was a testament to her quick reactions, but she’d plainly been expecting the attempt to bite; she simply evaded the snap, and pulled down the sheet as far as his waist.

His chest was partly covered by the skins in which he was still clad.  But on his right breast there was a small, clumsily executed tattoo: a sharply angled arrowhead, forming a shape eerily similar to the insignia on the personal communicator each of them was wearing.

 _“Starfleet!”_ Deanna stared incredulously at it. 

“It _could_ be just a coincidence.” With the appropriate care to avoid the second snap, the doctor replaced the blanket.

“But it seems we have no way of establishing whether it is or not.”  Jean-Luc frowned.  Bringing the man up from the planet had seemed the only possible course at the time, but he was beginning to wonder what it had achieved.  They had been trying to rescue him as well to satisfy their own inevitable curiosity, but the object of both was clearly unable to understand that they meant him no harm.  He might not even be capable of associating his miraculously improved vision with them in any way, and in the meantime he was suffering extreme mental trauma from his imprisonment.

“Counsellor,” he said finally, “do you think it would help the situation if he no longer felt himself to be a prisoner?  Do you think that would help us to gain his trust?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”  She gazed at the old man thoughtfully.  “I don’t think anyone who woke up unable to move, in a strange place among strange people, could possibly be expected to think they were friendly.”

“The question I have to ask is, how friendly is _he_ ,” Katherine interjected dryly.  “An ordinary human mouth is full of bacteria, even given proper oral care.  I wouldn’t care to speculate on what’s thriving in his.  And as you saw just then, Captain, his response to the unknown is ‘bite first and ask questions later’.”

“He might be less inclined to bite if he felt he had alternative options,” suggested Will.  “If we provided him with somewhere he could hide in till he realises we aren’t going to hurt him.”

Katherine exhaled doubtfully, but Jean-Luc felt the idea had merit.  It required a little ingenuity and some rearrangement of Sickbay’s furniture, but presently a couple of chairs, a few spare sheets and some temporary adhesive made a ‘den’ in one corner.

The risks inherent in the situation meant that Worf would of necessity be present.  Informed of the plan, he frowned doubtfully, but stood to one side, ready to intervene if giving the stranger freedom invited violence against any of _Enterprise_ ’s crew – a development that from his expression he clearly thought all too likely.  (“But bear in mind his age, please, Lieutenant,” the doctor requested; a stricture that brought a slightly insulted frown to the warrior’s face.)

It was obvious that the patient reserved a particular distrust for the Klingon, at whom he had glared and growled since his advent.  Jean-Luc admired the cunning and deftness with which Katherine took advantage of his preoccupation with the new arrival to slip in and click open the restraints, slipping off the sheet to emphasise that he was now free to move if he chose.

He certainly did choose.  He darted for the den as quickly as his legs could carry him – moving with surprising agility, given his age – and disappeared inside it.  A crescendo of snarls defied anyone to follow him inside; all that could now be seen of him now was his feet, suggesting he was tucked as far into the corner as he could go.

“Well, at least he didn’t try to attack anyone.”  There was more than a note of relief in Riker’s voice.  “Deanna, has that helped any?”

“Not a great deal.  I think he’s very confused.  I’d imagine the best thing would be to leave him alone for a while and let him settle down.”

“Not unsupervised,” Worf rumbled, and stepped to the comm panel to summon a member of Security .

“No, perhaps that would not be advisable,” the captain agreed.  “Very well.  Doctor, do you have any objections?”

She glanced at the den.  “He needs to relax.  I don’t think there’s much danger of him coming out anytime soon.  Yes, Captain, leave him here.  As long as I have a guard I can call on if needs be.”

“I will appoint someone to be on duty at all times,” the Klingon nodded, and at that moment the guard he had summoned arrived and was given orders to ensure that the visitor posed no danger to the doctor or anyone else who visited Sickbay.

Worf said no more as he accompanied the captain and XO to the Bridge, but he was still frowning.  “Captain,” he said presently, as the turbo-lift slowed to a halt, “have you formulated any plans as to what we intend to _do_ with this person?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got quite that far,” Jean-Luc replied as the turbo-lift doors hissed back .  “But until or unless we manage to establish his identity, or manage to establish even some form of communication with him, it would appear inhumane in the extreme to simply remove him from the world he probably thinks of as his home – however primitive his living conditions there happen to be.”

Data turned from his station.  “I believe, Captain, that I may be able to assist with the former.”

“Proceed, by all means, Commander!”

Unexpectedly, however, the android hesitated.  “I believe, sir, the matter should be discussed in privacy.”

The slight sense of unease that had lain in the captain’s stomach since the first sight of the dishevelled figure deepened.  He gestured to his Ready Room.  “You too, Number One.”

He took a seat at his desk, and Will moved to stand beside and slightly behind him.

Data took up station in front of the desk, facing them both.  “On being informed by Doctor Pulaski that she was unable to trace our visitor’s DNA within the last century, I took the liberty of searching the Starfleet archives, where I found a positive match.  I can now state unequivocally who this man’s parents were: Lieutenant Malcolm Reed and Ensign Hoshi Sato, both officers who served on board the _Enterprise_ NX-01.”


	6. Picard

Whatever Jean-Luc had expected to hear, this was not it.

“Reed disappeared _over_ _two hundred years ago!_ ” Riker’s tone was incredulous.

“Two hundred and fifteen years, one month and eleven days, sir,” Data corrected a little apologetically.  “Ensign Sato resigned her commission shortly after his disappearance and then herself disappeared.  It was never established what had become of either of them.”

“Until now, it seems!”  The captain’s hands were clasped on the desk in front of him; he stared at them in perplexity as he worked to recall the details of what he’d read of that old scandal.  There had been something – yes, he remembered now: some mystery about an accident to two officers in a shuttlepod.  One had been declared dead, the other had been returning to Earth to face the Board of Inquiry when he had apparently been abducted – or (it was alleged in some quarters) allowed to escape.  Extensive inquiries had failed to discover him, and Starfleet had been rocked to its core by the scandal that resulted; the media believed (or at least found it convenient to pretend they believed) that Reed had been got rid of because his evidence would have been too explosive. 

To begin with, Starfleet had been ‘unable’ to provide either of the grieving families with a detailed account of exactly what had taken place in the shuttlepod, pleading the necessity of withholding information pending judicial proceedings.  A formal arraignment followed by an Article 32 hearing and a Court Martial for Lieutenant Reed should have taken place, but could not until his recapture; Starfleet’s criminal investigation arm carried out an investigation, but their findings were – from a legal point of view, quite properly – kept confidential. 

And then, just when the clamour was showing the first faint signs of starting to die down, a third _Enterprise_ officer, Ensign Sato, had also vanished, leaving a third family to reignite all the previous uproar.  To be fair, Starfleet’s protestations of innocence over Sato’s disappearance had rung fairly true, but their handling of the earlier events had been so inept that the then captain of the NX-01, Jonathan Archer, had only just hung on to his commission, and the whole affair had led to countless accusations of cover-ups and concealment of evidence, if not worse.  The affair had even been brought up in the UE Parliament, but even then nothing concrete had ever been revealed – leading inevitably to accusations that even ministers had become mired in Starfleet’s corruption.  The damage to the organisation had been acute and long-lasting.  Possibly only the NX-01’s heroic performance in the subsequent Romulan War had redeemed Archer’s reputation, though the stain of that incident was never completely wiped away from it, and the missing officers’ parents had continued till their deaths to campaign for the justice they were to be denied.

“But over two hundred years!” Will repeated.  “Reed was, what? Thirty, thirty-one when he disappeared? Optimum survival expectation in primitive conditions, with skill and a _heck_ of a lot of luck, maybe another thirty years, forty max.  Sato was maybe ten, twelve years younger–”

“Twenty-two years and ten months old at the time of her last recorded appearance,” Data supplied helpfully.

“–So that allows her about another twenty fertile years, if she survived that long.  They disappeared in 2151–”

“Lieutenant Reed on 12 November 2151, Ensign Sato on 4 March 2152.”

“ _Therefore,_ ” Riker continued, undaunted, “any child of theirs would presumably be born prior to, say, 2172.  Which would make that guy in Sickbay, if he _is_ their child, at least _a hundred and ninety-four years old._ ”

“Is that humanly _possible?_ ” Jean-Luc pondered.  Certainly the man was old, but the privations of the life he must have led would have prematurely aged anyone forced to endure it.  He must be extremely tough to have survived to the age he appeared to be – somewhere between sixty and seventy, perhaps.  “Data, could there be any confusion – could he be not their son, but their grandson?  Their great-grandson, even?”  That would still be stretching the bounds of possibility, but at least not quite so unbelievably far.  It was an ugly and tragic idea, but not an impossible one, that children produced by the stranded officers would have formed intimate relationships between themselves, particularly given the fact that their mental facilities (and presumably, by that time, their parents’ as well) would have been corrupted by whatever psychotropic it was that was permeated this world’s atmosphere.  Void of ordinary civilising conditioning, they would have been driven by their physical and emotional needs to mate with the only available members of their own species.

But Data shook his head.  “It is possible, sir, but I believe not.  I have had the science lab analyse–”

_“Sickbay to Captain Picard.”_

“Picard here.” He was on his feet almost before the words were out, but the tone of the doctor’s voice had already told him that there was no crisis afoot.

“I think you should come down here, Captain.  We have an interesting development.”

It occurred to Jean-Luc as he left the Ready Room that he might as well set up a desk in Sickbay, but he said nothing as he headed once more for the turbo-lift, leaving Data in charge of the Bridge.  If there was cheerful news in a situation that had seemed to be growing grimmer and grimmer by the moment, he was more than ready to hear it.

Sickbay was quiet when he and Riker arrived; there was no indication of alarm within.

The doors hissed back to reveal a scene of calm.  The only thing that had changed was that botanist Keiko Ishikawa was sitting in a chair, and that ‘Reed-Sato’ was on all fours on the floor opposite her, watching her with an expression of anxious yearning.  As the door opened, he flinched away, but did not immediately retreat to his den.

Doctor Pulaski was close by, and the security guard had a phaser in one hand, clearly ready to use it if necessary, but neither of them evinced any sign of real anxiety.

To advance into the room might change the fledgling dynamics of whatever had been happening, and whatever the cause it was undoubtedly a step forward.  Both of the new arrivals halted just inside the door, intrigued.

Keiko herself seemed bewildered but unharmed.  She turned her eyes to the captain as though asking for reassurance, and he gave her a heartening nod; whatever happened, he would not allow any harm to come to her.  “I don’t believe he means you any harm, Miss Ichikawa.  Talk to him gently.”

She nodded, and looked back at the man in front of her.  “Hi,” she said quietly, smiling as she would to a child.  “I’m pleased to meet you.  My name’s Keiko.  What’s yours?”

The grey eyes strained at her face, as though he were struggling to understand. 

“Keiko.”  She put a hand to her chest, and then pointed to him, raising her brows questioningly.

Comprehension dawned. 

His face twisted.  He looked downwards, and they saw the effort with which he fought to summon speech into a mouth that for perhaps much of his life had formed nothing but animal sounds.

His jaws opened and worked.   After a long minute of intense concentration, _“S– Ssson...”_  The swallow was audible and painful, and he raised his head with a look of pleading and shame; it was the best he could do.

“Son,” whispered Riker.  “His mother was Japanese.  You don’t think...?”

Jean-Luc shook his head; he could see where Will was going with this, and it was certainly a plausible theory, but they had far too little to go on yet.

“Here.”  Moving slowly, Katherine passed her a glass of water.  “He needs to drink.  See if he knows how to use this.”

“This is for you,” Keiko said encouragingly, leaning forward and holding it out to him.  “Are you thirsty?”

It seemed that Son was – or at least that he wanted to prolong the contact.  A little nervously, he leaned forward and smelled the glass, and then tried to lap from it.

“No.” She spoke gently, but shook her head and pointed to his hands.  “Can you hold it? – Like this?”

Whatever his linguistic abilities, he was quick on the uptake.  Almost at once he raised both hands and clasped the glass as she moved her fingers to the base of it; it was noticeable that he pressed inwards with the palms rather than trying to bend his fingers around it, but after a moment his right thumb crept out and fumbled into the correct position.

Once again he lowered his head to lap, but hesitated.  With an uncertain look at his silent audience, he clumsily raised the glass slightly and brought it to his lips.

How long had it been since he drank like a human being?  Long enough for him to struggle to form his mouth into the correct shape and co-ordinate the tilt of the vessel he held, but he managed it, though water ran down his fingers and into his ragged beard.

When it was all gone, he passed back the glass.  He nodded awkwardly as he did so, as though the abbreviated movement was foreign to him, and uttered a softly growled sound.  The movement brought him closer to her, and he stared up into her face, turning his head slightly to one side.  Then, another word, formed at still greater cost, but no other could have been more significant.

“Mh...Mhrrthuh...”


	7. Picard

Son was already old and exhausted.

The stresses and strains of his ‘kidnapping’ had drained what little strength he had, and Doctor Pulaski had evidently noted the telltale droop of his head and the tremble of his arms as he put his hands back to the floor.  Between them she and Keiko had persuaded him to lie down on one of the bio-beds, and the soft hiss of a hypospray sent him back to the oblivion in which his body could rest and recover.

Clearly there had been no time to explain to Miss Ishikawa the circumstances in which she must have found herself on entering Sickbay – presumably on some everyday errand.  As the patient’s eyes fluttered shut, she stepped back from him with an audible breath of relief.

“Thank you,” said the captain quietly.  “Since you appear to have inadvertently become involved, I believe you are owed as much of an explanation as we have.”

He dismissed the security guard to wait outside for the time being.  Then, warning that the theory was unproven and must be treated as strictly confidential, he outlined the facts that had come to light so far.

“I remember reading about it, years ago.” Katherine looked down at her patient wonderingly.  “I know it caused Starfleet a heck of a lot of trouble at the time.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Riker heaved a sigh, and looked at the captain.  “I take it you’ll be informing Starfleet immediately, sir?  They’ll be glad to have the answer to one mystery at last.”

“I think there has been more than enough concealment of evidence regarding this particular case.  I’ve certainly no intention of adding to it.”  But Jean-Luc was conscious of mixed feelings even as he spoke.  It was inconceivable that the poor wretch they’d found down there would be held responsible in any degree for his father’s sins, but he wondered with enormous pity what would become of him.  It appeared that there were no relations living, but surely Starfleet would want him brought back to Earth; he was a human after all, the son of two Starfleet officers, and deserved care and dignity in his final years, however few or many they might be.

It was hard to avoid the suspicion, however, that for some this wish would not be entirely philanthropic.  Without fully understanding his damaged condition, there would certainly be some members of the organisation who would believe he might have valuable information about his parents’ presence here on Hir’vaQ II.   Moreover, for the media his discovery would present the heaven-sent opportunity to rake up an old scandal.  It was wholly probable that on both counts he would become the focus of attention he would find not just utterly incomprehensible but also completely unbearable.

His expression must have given away his doubts, for Will raised a quizzical eyebrow.  “Thoughts, Captain?”

“There are – difficulties, Number One,” he replied slowly.

“Where will he go?  What will they do with him?” asked Keiko apprehensively, almost articulating his half-formed concern.

“He has to go back to Earth, of course.”  Katherine folded her arms.  “I’ll continue my research in the meantime.  You never know – now it seems he does still possess _some_ capacity to communicate, I may be able to find some way to help him.”

“That would certainly be beneficial,” the captain nodded.  The prospect helped to remove some of the weight of anxiety; he could imagine all too well how terrifying it would be for the mentally-impaired old man to be simply transported away from the only world he had ever known and forcibly rehomed in a place with which he was utterly unfitted to deal.  However much more comfortable he would be there, if they could not explain their actions to him he would inevitably regard it as alien and threatening; and he was so frail that it was not inconceivable that the sheer stress of the experience would be literally fatal.   “In the meantime, until or unless he acquires more trust in us or a better ability to communicate, I must ask you, Keiko, if you would be willing to make yourself available to Doctor Pulaski if at any point she needs a ‘go-between’.”

“I’d be glad to help, sir.  I – I can’t help feeling sorry for him.”

Jean-Luc understood that sentiment all too well.  He did not return immediately to the Bridge, but parted from his XO and went instead to visit Counsellor Troi.  Duty pointed him clearly in one direction, but it was not the first time that other considerations had caused conflict with his duty, and he had learned that the counsellor had a deft touch with allowing him to sort out the occasional tangle of thoughts in his head.  Tangled thoughts led to unsound conclusions, and he wanted much more confidence that what he was contemplating was indeed the best way forward for all concerned.

The counsellor welcomed him cordially and offered him tea.  He was glad enough to accept, and as he sat back and sipped the fragrant hot liquid he felt some of his anxiety lessening.  His attractive hostess took a seat opposite him, her calm expression one that invited a confidential discussion if that was what he had come for.

It appeared that Deanna had not heard the old scandal.  He gave her the bare facts of the case, as best he could recall them, and the evidence that now led to the inescapable conclusion that it was on this world that the missing officers from the NX-01 had found refuge – whatever the circumstances might have been which prompted them to choose it.  Certainly it had been safe enough.  They had not been found in their lifetimes.  A very short while later and their son (or grandson, or great-grandson – he still had trouble accepting that extraordinary life-span) would not have been found alive either.

“But how wonderful for their families!” she said at once, having listened attentively but without comment to all he had to say.  “To have the mystery finally solved!”

“That depends, of course, whether they have any close relations still living,” he replied, taking another sip of his tea, which had cooled somewhat in the meantime.  “If Data hadn’t taken the initiative and searched Starfleet’s archive records, we might still not have any idea who this individual is – or who his parents were.”  He glanced up and added soberly, “Also, of course, bear in mind the circumstances in which they disappeared.  Any family members might feel that the attention this will attract will be most unwelcome, to say the least.  I can imagine some feeling it would be far better if the knowledge was suppressed – exactly like the rest of the evidence in the ‘Shuttlepod Mystery’.” That title, he had now recalled, was how the incident had gone down in the media – an enduring stain on Starfleet’s previously excellent public record.

Her smile was wry.  “But as well as clearing up one mystery, you’ve found another.  The ship that Worf found – the one that crashed.  Do we have any identification of it?  Might that have been the one they used to get here?”

“I asked Lieutenant Worf to gather as much information as he could about it.  I’d imagine he’s accessed all the scanner information and interrogated the databases by now; possibly he may feel the need for an away team to inspect the site.  With protective clothing, of course – not to mention breathing apparatus.”  He sighed.  “But the fact that the shuttle _crashed_ suggests that if they were on it, they must have been very badly injured.  From what the initial scans we saw indicated, I’d doubt if survival would have been possible.  Perhaps an away team might be able to gather more information as to who might have been on board, or perhaps even where it came from.”

“But that’s not what’s troubling you the most,” she said shrewdly.

He set down the cup.  On the low table before him stood a slender, fluted blue glass vase with a single lily-stem in it, and the contrast between the simplicity of the ornament and the complexity of the problem that had now been thrust into his hands was painful.  But it gave him an image of the situation that helped to bring it into focus.

He touched the soft petals of the one white flower that had opened and was leaning over to admire its reflection in the polished surface of the table.  “Imagine that the seed of this plant fell in a desert.  The ground was stony, with hardly any soil.  Hardly any rain fell.  But somehow – somehow, by some miracle, some _determination of life_ , the seed put out roots and somehow found enough sustenance not just to grow, but to flower.

“And then along comes a traveller – a botanist, perhaps – who recognises the flower.  Who knows that the seed must have fallen here by the merest chance, and by all the recognised laws of botany should have shrivelled and died in the desert winds and the cold nights.  But so beautiful and valiant a flower is wasted here in the desert, he thinks.  It should be lifted out of the stony soil and transported to a greenhouse, where it can be fed and watered and cared for.”

 _“But the desert was its home.”_   Her voice was soft.

“Precisely.”  Lifting his cup and saucer again, he sat back in the chair and stared at them.  “This poor man was born here and somehow managed to survive – if Data’s analysis is correct, survive to an age that even on Earth, with all its modern technology, would be unthinkable for his species.  Presumably, by all he knows, this world _is_ his home.  This is where his parents lived and died, where the only family life he remembers took place.

“Presumably he feels loneliness.  But given his extremely limited experience of socialisation, could he actually endure life in a modern Human environment?”

“He might find significant compensation in having comfortable surroundings, being well cared for – given food and drink instead of having to find it for himself,” she suggested.  “And in the circumstances, he could be placed in a secure location where access to him is limited, so that he would not be overwhelmed by the pressure of having to deal with more than a few selected people.”

“But for the scandal that surrounded his parents’ disappearance – particularly his father’s – that might be a viable option,” he replied with a grimace.  “But I fear that should a whisper of his existence get out, he might all too easily become the centre of a positive media ‘circus’.  Even within Starfleet itself there might be those who would refuse to believe he has no information on what happened.  They would bring pressure to bear to have him subjected to questioning.”

“Do we actually _know_ he has no information?  His parents might have talked to him about it while they were alive. They must have retained at least some rudimentary means of communication between themselves; after all, he clearly knows at least two words of English.”

Jean-Luc acknowledged that possibility with a reluctant nod.  “Of course, that’s possible.  But whether he could withstand such an inquisition – even if some means of communication were found – is a different matter.”

“But surely he would have to be declared medically fit for questioning first,” she protested.

Well.  _Technically_ that was true.  But although it was obviously a concept that the half-Betazoid counsellor had trouble conceiving, the captain had experience of individuals whose quest for knowledge took very little  account of the frailty of the source.  There were still those to whom that old scandal was like a suppurating sore, and any chance of cauterising it would be something to be grasped at with scant regard for the cost.  It was even possible – however remotely – that members of the dead Chief Engineer Tucker’s family would seize on the unfortunate old man as being somehow responsible for the sins of his father (whatever these had actually been), and attempt to find him in the search for answers of their own.  Of course, the passage of over two hundred years should theoretically have robbed the quest of much of its urgency, but Jean-Luc knew that close-knit families can sometimes be surprisingly dogged when it comes to the memory of crimes committed against their own.  He had only to imagine his own brother Robert, who would have pursued any such offence against even a long-dead member of the Picard family with unsparing ferocity until the whole matter was resolved, up till (and quite probably including) the hour of his own death.

Deanna clearly perceived his doubt and trouble.  Her lovely face was creased by a frown.  “Perhaps that might be something to be dealt with at a later date,” she suggested.  “I take it you will be reporting to Starfleet.  They may have insights of their own to offer.”

Of that, there could hardly be any question.  What those insights might be, however, very much depended on who received the report first.  As soon as the information was sent out to HQ, and a response received, his own field of action would be restricted accordingly.  That was a situation that he was somewhat reluctant to be placed in.

“I should report it as soon as possible,” he said heavily.  “I’ve been delaying it while we searched for more information, but at least the bare facts we have should be passed on.  Then perhaps those further up in the hierarchy may have more time to consider their response and formulate a statement for release to the Press in due course.”  He couldn’t help the uncomfortable, nagging feeling that he was ‘passing the buck’ to some extent, but this was a legal matter and as a Starfleet captain he was bound to respect the law, at least as far as reporting his discovery to the authorities.

She nodded soberly, looking at the flower.  “In all honesty, Captain, I can’t imagine any other response than an order for immediate transplantation.”

“I fear you’re probably right, Counsellor, though I intend to make every representation against it.

“But if that is the case – I just hope he survives it.”


	8. Picard

It was probably not surprising that the captain passed a somewhat restless night.

He had finally composed a very carefully worded report and sent it off to Starfleet, anticipating correctly that the news it contained would require considerable digestion before any response was despatched to the _Enterprise_ - _D_.   It afforded him time to eat, and a period of supposed relaxation off-duty (which he actually spent in refreshing his knowledge of the circumstances of Lieutenant Reed’s disappearance), but little respite from the continuous niggle of worry over their unexpected guest.

Data, being an android, did not experience worry.  However, he did not require sleep either, and next morning it was obvious that overnight he had continued to study the mysterious ‘phenomenon’ towards which the planet was travelling.

“It is not, in fact, stationary as I first thought,” he said at the morning briefing.  “It appears to be travelling – but extremely slowly.  Moreover, its size is not constant; it currently appears to be shrinking at a fairly steady rate. Obviously a period of prolonged study would be necessary to conclude whether this is cyclical or is part of some period of deterioration.

“I have not been able to determine much about its nature – it emits a form of low-level radiation, but what the effects of this would be on living matter is unknown.  Presumably they would not be prejudicial to life, because my analysis suggests that, depending on the rate and pattern of shrinkage, the planet below us has passed through it during at least the last three hundred orbits.  Its flora and fauna appear relatively standard for a Minshara-class world, and show no undue influence that could be traced to an annual bombardment of hostile radiation.”

“And how much longer will the annual ‘visits’ last?” asked Will.

“That will depend, again, on the rate and pattern of the shrinkage, sir,” Data replied.  “But based on the current trend, if it continues, possibly another thirty or forty years.”

“And then...?”

“I do not have enough information to be able to predict that, sir.  Its current direction of travel is towards the sun, but whether that is influenced by gravity or by some other process, I would not care to speculate.  At a guess, unless it somehow changes direction it will eventually be destroyed, if not by solar radiation then by the forces of heat and gravity when it enters the star’s atmosphere.”

The captain gazed out of the viewing port thoughtfully.  The ‘phenomenon’ was not visible – it had no light source and no reflective surfaces – but presumably it was out there somewhere, blotting out stars that should have been visible.  Data had mentioned earlier that it was of considerable size, a slowly undulating ribbon of some mysterious energy drifting gradually through space.  What were its origins?  What was its _nature?_  They would probably never know, though the ship’s science departments were already studying it in the effort to gain some understanding of it, and when the current business was concluded he intended to have Data navigate them to within whatever safe distance might best facilitate closer observation.  The movement towards the sun (if it _was_ influenced by gravity) would increase in speed as it neared the centre of the system, passing the orbit of the hot, lifeless inner planet as it went.  As for what happened when it got there – that would depend on so many unknown factors, most of all on its own nature.  It size and mass relative to the star drawing it in would not necessarily be the deciding factor in the question of which of them, if either, survived the encounter.

That event would, of course, decide the future of the planet the ship was currently orbiting.  Should there be any catastrophic outcome, its survival would be doubtful; even if it escaped immediate destruction, which appeared rather unlikely, the annihilation of its star would mean the end of all higher forms of life on its surface.  Deprived of light, it would be a barren shadow of its former self: truly, at last, the World of Lost Souls.

Doubtless all of the information that _Enterprise_ could provide would be absorbed eagerly by the scientific community.  If and when the eventual collision occurred, it would be the object of enormous interest (though extreme care would have to be taken not to attract the suspicious attention of the nearby Klingon Empire, of which Khitomer was an outpost).  But in the meantime, there was time to study and speculate; and Jean-Luc wondered if it was entirely coincidental that the period of time during which the planet had been annually exposed to that unknown radiation corresponded with the extraordinary lengthening of an ordinary human being’s life-span.

The ‘Fountain of Youth’... well, not of youth exactly, but of a hugely increased life expectancy.

Was it possible?

The ship’s voyage so far had taught him that space was full of incalculables; within the bounds of the laws of physics, it was fair to propose that ‘nothing was impossible’.  Indeed, it seemed that beings such the irrepressible Q experienced no restrictions at all, even by the theoretically immutable laws of existence.  If, after due and thorough investigation, no other explanation that fitted the facts presented itself, then this idea of the phenomenon being able to extend life must be regarded as at least a contender for the truth.

But what the outcome might be if the theory was proven accurate....

Fortunately, that aspect did not come within the purview of a mere ship’s captain.  Picard shrugged mentally, and consigned it to the future and to the hands of those considerably further up the command hierarchy than himself.

 _His_ problem was in Sickbay, and after completing the morning briefing he left Will Riker in charge of the Bridge and Worf to the organisation of a landing party to investigate the wrecked shuttle far below.

Sickbay was still quiet.  The bio-beds were unoccupied, however, and he felt a momentary twinge of disquiet until he was able to see that the ‘den’ had an occupant, sitting quietly cross-legged and looking out.

The medical staff had obviously been busy overnight.  In place of the filthy and bedraggled scarecrow of the evening before, the man who sat there now was clean and dressed in a set of standard Sickbay coveralls.  He was clean-shaven, his nails had been pared, and his hair had been cut short and given a simple style.

The transformation was _astonishing_.

It also brought up with unmistakable clarity his resemblance to his father.  It was the watchful gaze of a tactical officer that noted all that went on, and studied the captain narrowly as Doctor Pulaski walked across the open area to greet him at the door.

“Well, this is certainly a surprise,” he said, low-voiced.  That, indeed, was an understatement; the previous evening it had seemed possible that their guest might die of sheer fright at his surroundings, whereas now he sat with seeming composure and waited to see what might come next.

The grooming had not robbed him of years, but it had certainly restored him to dignity.  It seemed that he felt it so, and perhaps that in itself bolstered his confidence.  Or maybe he had simply decided that the treatment he had received was sufficient indication that his captors/hosts intended him no harm.

“I’ve had some encouraging results from my research,” Katherine responded.  “Late last night Data told me he’d been able to access some old records from a rather dubious source that specifically mention the action of these chemicals on brain functions.  I can’t imagine why anyone would have targeted these in particular, they’re not commonly found, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.  I’ve already started him on the basic treatment, with a few refinements the computer suggested.  The results–.” She gestured.  “Well, see for yourself.”

“‘A rather dubious source’?” Jean-Luc glanced at her sharply.

“He didn’t say anything more than that.” A shrug.  “But somebody definitely ran quite an intensive program over several years on ways to combat or reverse the effect that they have on the memory engrams in the human brain.”

“So someone – presumably someone in Starfleet – was already aware of the effect this particular combination of substances has on the human intellect.”

Katherine was in some ways infinitely more worldly-wise than Deanna Troi.  Her eyes met his without evasion, sharing the short journey to an extremely unpleasant conclusion.

It was unlikely in the extreme that even in the attempt to evade the just punishment for his supposed crimes, Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Sato would have deliberately sought refuge on a world they knew would permanently warp their brain functions.  A tactical officer of Reed’s calibre would surely have chosen a safe refuge with care, especially if he had a junior officer under his protection – presumably a woman who cared enough for him to abandon her own career and follow him into lifelong exile, fleeing hunted into the shadows.  He was no green cadet who might overlook the dangers for the sake of the offered sanctuary.

Someone – perhaps rather more than some _one_ – had known of the risks.  Reed, presumably, had not.  Or else he had been given no choice.

The official report on his disappearance from the base on Proxima had deliberately used the term _abducted._   It had claimed that there had been evidence of a struggle in the supposedly secure room from which he had vanished.  The media, naturally, had seen this as an attempt to cover up Starfleet’s complicity in (if not responsibility for) his escape from trial and sentence.

But supposing that _someone_ who was so strangely well-informed on the action of that unusual combination of chemicals on the human brain wished to dispose of two officers who were ... for want of a better word ... ‘an embarrassment’ to Starfleet.  There was no need to resort to murder.  They could be safely, humanely deposited on a world where there was virtually no danger of their being found – particularly with that warning beacon in orbit.  And if by any unlucky chance they _were_ eventually discovered, what would there be left to find?  Two poor creatures who were far beyond recognising themselves as the people they had been, and who would probably have virtually no functioning memory of events before their transformation.

A media determined to make something out of nothing had made the maximum capital out of Lieutenant Reed’s ‘escape’ from justice.  The scandal had been so great that the man’s father had made virtual prisoners of himself and his wife, living in total seclusion until their deaths.  But during his ‘leisure hours’ the previous evening the captain had examined the newspaper articles as well as the official reports, and a recurring theme from those who had known the lieutenant well was his absolute and unswerving _passion_ for justice, even when it applied to himself.  Many flatly refused to believe that he had willingly and knowingly absented himself from trial and punishment, or even co-operated with any plan to rescue him from them.  The only dissenting voice on that score came, sadly and strangely, from his captain, who had lost in Commander Tucker not only his ship’s Chief Engineer but an old friend.  Although silent during his lifetime, in obedience to the legal obligation not to prejudice any eventual trial that might come to pass, Archer had spoken out just before his own death, clearly believing that Reed had been guilty of deliberately evading trial for a capital crime.

 _Murder._   Even then the word had not been uttered; failing evidence of the runaway’s death, there was still the possibility, however remote it might be, that that long-evaded justice might still lay hand on him and call him to account.  But the media had uttered it – nay, screamed it, often enough; Commander Tucker had died and Lieutenant Reed had been arrested, and on what other charge could he have been summoned back to Earth to face a Court Martial?

Right up until this point, Jean-Luc had implicitly believed that the account finally entered in Starfleet records – that Reed had engineered his own escape, faking the ‘evidence of a struggle’ – was the correct one.  Nobody had been able to prove, one way or the other, whether he had later summoned Sato to join him in some place of safety, though the theory had been widely credited.  Now, however, the picture had shifted in an extremely sinister manner.  Suddenly that chorus of belief in the lieutenant’s integrity was no longer so easy to dismiss.

“Good grief,” he said slowly.  A chill crept up his spine.

He was not among those who saw conspiracies in every shadow.  The organisation he served was led – at least largely – by honourable men; he had always believed that and still did.  But neither was he so naïve as to believe that _all_ its personnel were strictly honourable, or that it had ever been incapable of actions that could unhesitatingly be described as criminal in pursuit of its aims.  Now, in this moment of suddenly darkening realisation, it occurred to him to wonder: if his fledgling suspicions _were_ correct, just how deep had run the roots of the corruption that must have been involved?  How high up the chain of command had the decision been taken that Reed should _not_ stand trial for his actions, and what could their reasons have been?

It had all happened over two hundred years ago.  It was far too late for any of those involved to be held to account, and it was quite certain that whoever they had been, they would have taken great care to cover their tracks.  He was also certain that modern-day Starfleet would see no point in raking up old scandals – an activity that could neither punish the guilty nor reward the innocent, but which could definitely stir up the whole fetid cloud of suspicion and rumour again.  Nevertheless, his deep-seated sense of justice was offended.  If an innocent man’s life had been destroyed for the sake of preserving Starfleet’s countenance, then even if those responsible were beyond being brought to book for that act, history should be set right.  Because – no matter what Reed had actually done – by all the laws of criminal justice, until the evidence was heard and sentence pronounced by an appointed court, he was legally innocent of any crime.

In that moment a determination took hold that he would investigate those long-ago events through every avenue available to him.  No matter that common sense warned that there might well be those even now who would wish the whole affair to remain dead and buried.  “‘When all its work is done, the lie shall rot,’” he murmured resolutely.  Then, rousing himself from his brief abstraction, he addressed the current situation.

With a brief word to Katherine, he moved to stand in front of the den – not directly opposite it, nor too close, which might appear threatening or confrontational.  Then he squatted to bring himself down to the occupant’s eye-level, careless for the moment of his own captainly dignity.

“I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard,” he said, speaking very slowly and clearly.  “You are aboard my ship, the USS _Enterprise_.  You are quite safe.  No-one will harm you here.”

Naturally he did not expect a response; the treatment had only just been started.  Nevertheless, he was quite sure that he got a reaction to one word.  When he had said ‘ _Enterprise_ ’, there had been a perceptible sharpening in Son’s attention, already carefully focused on him.

“‘ _Enterprise_ ’,” he repeated.  “Do you recognise that word?”

It took a little effort to recognise the word as Son pronounced it.  ‘Ent’ was a snap of teeth, ‘er’ emerged as a growl, and ‘prise’ sounded as if he was chewing tough meat with his mouth open.  But there was no doubt about it: he did indeed know the word, and recognised that an attempt at communication was being made.

“Did your par– did your _moth-er_ say that word?”

The word was evidently complicated for him to pronounce.  Once again it emerged with difficulty.  “Mh-m-mhr-mhrthr. _Ent-rprise._ ”  Then, unexpectedly, a third word that came on a long, modulated snarl: “ _Faarthr. Ent-rprise._ ”

“Oh my god,” said Katherine softly in the background.

Son looked around the room, a long, intense look.  “ _Ent-rprise?_ ”

“Yes.  _Enterprise_.” Jean-Luc nodded.  It would be completely impossible, at least for the time being, to even attempt to convey the fact that this was a different ship, the inheritor of that proud name but a far larger and more sophisticated vessel than the one on which his parents had served.  Maybe, depending on the extent of his recovery, it might eventually be necessary to try to explain the situation, but for the time being it would surely be a comfort to him to believe that he had, in a sense, come ‘home’.  If nothing else, it should allay the first and worst of his fears, that he was in the hands of people who wished him harm.

Doubtless there would be many questions Son would require answers for – nothing indicated that he was unintelligent, however unused he was to the complexities of human communication.  His next attempt at speech suggested that he had already made a connection that agitated him.  He pointed to the captain’s communicator and then to his own chest and the mark tattooed on it.  “S-S’har-S’harf’hee,” he growled. “S’harf’hee –h’nt– Faarthr.”  Malignancy glinted in the grey as he lowered his head to glare from under his eyebrows.  “No fin’!”

“Your father is _alive?_ ” exclaimed the captain incredulously.

The only answer was a snarl that did not attempt words.  Son clearly suspected now that the ship had come in pursuit of his father, and was not going to co-operate.  With a sudden movement that again belied his years, he retreated to the back of the den and resumed his defensive posture, glaring out across linked arms and crossed legs. It was obvious that he had said all he was going to – at least for the time being.

Pressing him at this juncture would undoubtedly do more harm than good.  Jean-Luc made the effort to sound as convincingly reassuring as he possibly could as he told him that nobody here intended harm to him or to his family, but once that was said he rose to his feet and left his strange guest to think things over in peace for a while.  He himself had a good many things to think over, though it was a working certainty that he would not be allowed much by way of peace in which to ruminate.

He and Katherine retreated across Sickbay for a low-voiced conference as to how to proceed.  It now seemed more sensible than ever to have a member of Security on guard here; up till now Son had seemed more defensive than aggressive, but the perceived threat to his father (if indeed, by any staggering quirk of biology Reed was actually still living) could change that attitude considerably.

“I’ve put together something that I think will interest him,” said the doctor quietly, holding out a PADD.  On it, side by side, were photographs of Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Sato.  “It also contains other photographs and video clips of them, and recordings of their voices he can listen to – and that may stimulate both his memory and linguistic centres and help him rediscover how speech is formed.  But if he thinks we’ve come here on a pursuit mission, our having this may seem too much like evidence of that.”

“Call Miss Ishikawa and give this to her – out of his immediate line of sight.”  The captain was thinking rapidly.  Apart from the shared racial characteristics and a definite prettiness, there was not really a great deal of resemblance between Ishikawa and Sato.  Admittedly, if the ensign had survived to old age then that would have had an influence on her physical appearance, but the fact that Son had seen that resemblance (even, perhaps, actually believed Keiko to _be_ his mother, though his lack of curiosity about her since suggested not) indicated that she might have died comparatively young.  “He may well accept it from her as a friendly gesture, especially if he believes she gives it to him without our knowledge.”

Pulaski nodded.  “I’ll keep you informed on how he takes it.  And I’ll send updates during the day – he’s due for more medication this afternoon and later on this evening.”

“I’d appreciate that, Doctor.”  With which he left Sickbay, carefully not giving any indication of interest in the eyes that watched suspiciously from cover until the doors closed behind him.


	9. Worf

Lieutenant Worf was not a believer in letting the grass grow under his feet.

Tasked with investigating the wreckage he had discovered on the planet below, he assembled a sensible landing party – himself, another security officer, two engineers, and Crewman Asenzi from the Medical Team to provide any First Aid that might be required, given that the site might contain hidden hazards.  As the shuttlepod came in low over the wreckage, confirming all the opinions he’d formed from the scans, he thought that however long ordinary people could survive on this planet, it was unlikely in the extreme that anyone who’d been on board during so catastrophic a crash would have lived to tell the tale. 

The vessel had been there for a _very_ long time.  The growth of plant life through the wreckage testified to that beyond any doubt.  There were mature trees thrusting through the great rent in the floor where it had broken apart on impact.  Although the alloy of which the outer hull had been built had resisted corrosion relatively well, the insides were so rusted and rotten they crumbled at a touch.  Anything perishable had mouldered away long ago.

Given the time frame, plus the fact that the scanners had indicated the presence of wildlife, there was virtually no chance that any human remains would be found.  Careful examination of the wreck and the surrounding area yielded enough clues to suggest that no more than three personnel had been on board, and it was unlikely any of them would have survived the crash; the extent of the damage suggested that the craft had fallen from some considerable height, and residual scorch marks suggested an explosion.  The location of this, in the area of the engine, suggested a possible cause of the accident – though it was impossible to say after all this time whether it had occurred while in flight or on impact.  The engineers carefully removed what remained of the communications equipment, just in case anything might be retrieved from it, and after carrying this back to the shuttlepod they transferred their attention to the outside of the wreckage and took numerous detailed photographs and scans for later study.  In the meantime, Asenzi bravely examined the few pieces of protective gear that had survived, doubtless in case they might contain even a fragment of bone to help identify who had worn them.

Worf and his Security subordinate remained on guard in the meadow outside.  Crewman Hayes had not long joined the ship, but he was steady and courageous, and his commanding officer already regarded him as a potential for career advancement.  He came of a military family, but was not the first of them to venture into Space; his great-great-great-great-grandfather had apparently served aboard the NX-01, and been decorated for acts of outstanding bravery during the Romulan War.

As they stood a little distance apart, studying the encroaching woodland all around and checking their scanners every so often for early warning of danger, Worf spared a moment to glance assessingly at his junior.  Hayes’ gaze was never still, and though he had the phase rifle he carried ready for action his finger rested close to the trigger, not on it.  Nor did he apparently feel the need to make idle conversation, thereby reducing their vigilance.  A warrior himself, Worf noted approvingly the evidence that reinforced his previous opinion that his second on this mission was intelligent as well as brave.

The sun was shining.  The surrounding landscape was quite lovely, soaring peaks whose topmost turrets were tipped with snow, though their lower slopes were thickly forested.  There had been birdsong earlier, but now it was very quiet.

_Very_ quiet.

Quiet enough for the Klingon to hear the faint sound of Crewman Hayes slipping the safety catch off his rifle, just as the communicator squawked in his pocket and he slid his own phaser from its catch at his hip.  Without doubt _Enterprise_ was sending a warning, but there was no time now to answer it.  Both weapons were set on stun, but they were fully charged and a direct hit from either delivered a powerful blast to the nervous system.

“Lieutenant....”

“All personnel, back to the shuttlepod _immediately!_ ” shouted Worf.  _“Run!”_

The scanner in his hand showed the approaching threat: over thirty of them, flowing in through the trees with deadly purpose.  Whatever they were, they were fast and coming this way, and even as he himself turned to run he recognised the fluid ease of long practise in the way the pack split and diverged, forming two smaller packs to come at the quarry from either side.

All of the _Enterprise_ crew were superbly fit, but the ground was foul with fallen branches and split with seams that the lush grass hid almost until the foot plunged into them.  Running at full pelt was no easy matter, particularly when burdened with breathing apparatus.  The hunters, however, knew every centimetre of the meadow, and poured over and around obstacles like water.

Growing up with his adoptive parents in Russia, Worf had seen Russian wolfhounds many times.  These animals were like them, but bigger and more muscular around the shoulders, and their eyes were not brown but blazing blue coins.  They were long-coated, and the hair flowed out with the speed of their going.

There was no doubt as to their intentions.

The Prime Directive forbade causing unnecessary harm to the denizens of any world the ship visited, but in this case there was no choice.  Picking his targets, Worf loosed off a dozen shots, and almost as many black and tawny bodies crashed or somersaulted, stunned in mid-stride.  But there were too many for him to deal with them all, and they were moving too fast, and he had to slow his own speed to aim with any accuracy, thereby opening the gap between his charges and himself.  Hayes too was firing, but the rifle was harder to use under these conditions, which favoured the smaller and lighter weapon.

Ensign Davis had been trying to help Crewman Asenzi make better speed, but presently tripped and fell headlong himself.  Worf swerved to help him up, but even as he bent to seize the man’s arm a heavy body struck him from the side.  He was knocked off balance, and as he fell heavily the faceplate of his respirator smashed against one of the rocks with which this part of the meadow was strewn.

Not just cracked: cracked _open._ A strand of viciously thorny bramble thrust through, tearing at his forehead; fortunately it missed his eyes, but as he jerked back in reflex more of the thorns buried themselves in his skin and tore it.  The atmosphere flooded in too, and he couldn’t help but breathe.

Not poisonous.  He took what comfort he could from that.  But there was no saying how long it would take for the psychotropic that Doctor Pulaski had mentioned to take effect, and he _must_ get the landing party back safely to the ship.

He hauled himself back his feet, ignoring the pain from the thorn-scratches; they were minor, and could be dealt with later.  Davis was already scrambling up.  Asenzi, yelling abuse, had lifted a fallen branch and was swiping bravely at a snarling wolf who’d got between her and the shuttlepod; Worf pushed up his now useless visor, swiped away the blood now streaking his face and impeding his vision, took aim and dropped the brute with a single shot.

Crewman Nelson had already reached the shuttlepod but was unable to open the door.  Two wolves were almost on him, and he dared not turn his back on them to operate the door control; even if he could have gotten the door open in time, they would have followed him in.  He was pinned against the metal as they closed on him, his face pallid with terror.

Two rapid rifle shots from the right of the clearing dropped them before they could pounce, and Worf shot another three who were racing in to cut off the escape route.  Somehow he got himself, Asenzi and Davis to the shuttlepod just as the door opened and they were able to tumble inside. 

He turned in the doorway to give covering fire to the last man _.  “Hayes!”_ he yelled, swiping angrily at more blood trickling from his forehead.

At the far right of the meadow there was a mass of heaving furry bodies dragging something off into the trees.  In a fury he took aim – even at this distance, he couldn’t miss – but for all the wolves that dropped into the grass, the rest redoubled their efforts.  In moments the whole crowd had vanished into the undergrowth.

In a rage, Worf jumped down to the ground again and took a couple of paces.  But the chances of Hayes still being alive after being attacked by such numbers was negligible, and every breath he himself drew sucked that chemical-laden atmosphere into his lungs.  By the bitterest irony, now was the time when a warrior’s courage had to be tempered with wisdom; if there had been the smallest chance of effecting a rescue he would have taken it willingly, but there was no point in giving up his life for nothing.

The nearest of the wolves that had menaced Nelson was already stirring.  The paws twitched, and the blue eyes sent him a glare of hatred that was almost enough to chill the soul of a Klingon.

Not this Klingon, however.  With a curse of “ _HaDIbaH k’pekt_!”, Worf shot the animal again.  At a guess, it would not wake soon enough to win a share of their accursed meal.

Nevertheless, he looked out across the meadow again for a minute longer, debating whether there was even the smallest chance–.

There was not.

Hayes had died a hero’s death even by Klingon standards.  Instead of defending himself, he had expended his last two shots on protecting the unarmed Crewman Nelson.

“ _Q’aplaH!_ ” Worf struck his clenched right fist strongly against his chest and thrust it out in the salute appropriate to a departed fellow-warrior.

Then, heavy-hearted, he turned and mounted into the shuttlepod again, where his shocked and frightened comrades were urging haste to get him back to _Enterprise_ for treatment.  They would indeed have to make all speed back to the ship; it was only to be hoped that he had not already inhaled enough of the psychotropic to affect him, or that any effect it might have would be short-lived and reversible.

Truly, he thought, this place had justified the ill name it bore in legend.


	10. Pulaski

_“Shuttlepod Two to Sickbay, medical emergency.  Please meet us in the launch bay.”_

Doctor Pulaski raised her head in alarm from her laboratory samples, but before she could step towards the door Worf’s unmistakable brusque tones issued from the comm. 

_“Cancel that request, Doctor.  I shall require treatment in Sickbay, that is all.  We are about to dock and I will make my own way there. Worf out.”_

The link closed; the Security chief was never one to waste words, or indeed mince them.  She winced, imagining whoever had sent the original message receiving a withering glare for following procedure.

Son was still in his den.  He had been enchanted with the PADD Keiko had given him, and refused to be parted from it; the sound of the recorded voices on it had been a background noise to her work all morning. Hearing the sudden small disturbance, he peered out warily, holding the PADD protectively to his chest.

Katherine was laying out her emergency treatment kit when the doors opened and Lieutenant Worf came in, closely followed by the captain and Will Riker.  The lieutenant’s face and neck were streaked with blood, and he was scowling deeply; both of his senior officers’ faces were grave.

“There was an incident down on the planet, Doctor,” Worf said without preamble. He appeared to be positively glowering, but possibly that was just normal reaction from something having gone wrong with the away mission under his command.  “We were attacked by predators – some species of huge wolf – and my faceplate was broken.

“The scratches were merely from some kind of thorny plant.  I believe they are only minor. Unfortunately, I was obliged to breathe in some of the planet’s atmosphere.”  The glower became even more pronounced, as though he were admitting to some heinous failure of duty.  “I instructed the rest of the landing party to keep their breathing apparatus in use so that the air in the shuttlepod could be cycled and cleaned prior to returning to the ship.  I myself used a breathing mask during the operation – this has been placed in isolation with the rest of the protective equipment, for whatever decontamination you deem necessary.”

The implications of his breathing that atmosphere were obvious, though even if the scratches _were_ only minor (and on a planet as hostile as this one that could not be taken for granted) they would still have to be thoroughly disinfected as soon as possible.  She directed him immediately to lie down on one of the bio-beds, swinging into position a ventilation chamber to help draw whatever was left of the contaminant from his lungs.  “Breathe slowly and deeply,” she ordered, as the seals clicked shut.

The computer began analysing the results immediately.  Sure enough the tell-tale spikes appeared, but they were relatively low; it seemed he had not suffered prolonged exposure.

She prepared a hypospray for use as soon as he was released, once again silently blessing the work of whatever unknown scientist had so meticulously recorded the results of his or her research all those years ago.  Only a small amount of the psychotropic would have entered Worf’s bloodstream, and she hoped and believed that the contents of the hypospray would prevent it from affecting his brain.

“Your conclusions, Doctor?” asked the captain as she laid it down ready, waiting for those spikes to flatten out and disappear as the air in his lungs was filtered clean.

“He should be fine, though I’ll keep him under observation for twenty-four hours.  I think he’d have had to be exposed to it for a lot longer than this for it to have any significant long-term effects.  The scratches seem harmless enough, but they’ll need to be cleaned, just in case.”  She moved to the ship-wide environmental controls to increase the filtration levels to maximum; the amount he would have exhaled since removing his breathing apparatus would be minimal, but there was no sense in taking chances.  “Was anyone else injured?”

The question was almost rhetorical; if there had been any other casualties they would have been in here by now.  Nevertheless, apprehension caught her by the throat as she saw the expressions on the faces opposite her.

“Crewman Hayes was killed during the course of the attack,” said Riker soberly.  “He safeguarded the others’ retreat, but couldn’t make it himself.”

“His conduct was that of a true warrior,” Worf interjected, his voice echoing faintly from the ventilation chamber.  “Were he a Klingon, he would be warmly welcomed in Sto’Vo’Kor for his bravery.”

“Oh, no!” She knew Michael Hayes, a polite, usually serious young man with a rare, shy smile.

_“No.”_  The sound was so deep and unexpected that for a moment none of them knew where it had come from.  Then they turned as one to stare at Son, who was scowling at them from his den.  Even Worf tried to lean up and peer through the side of the ventilator.

“Do you know anything about this?” demanded the captain.

“No-tail...not...” The old man shook his head in frustration, clearly seeking for the words, which came slowly and with difficulty.  “Br..brother ... _brothers ..._ not die him.”

“They attacked him and dragged him away!” exclaimed Worf.

“ _Not_ die him!” Son snarled.

“Please.  We need to understand.” Jean-Luc crouched down in front of him and spoke urgently.  “If they did not kill him, what did they do with him?  Why did they capture him?”

Sato-Reed growled and retreated.  “H’nt faarthr!”

Will was wide-eyed.  “Sir, is he saying...?”  He stopped as Katherine laid a hand on his sleeve and shook her head.

“Son.” Picard paused, seeming to marshal his thoughts and compose himself.  When he spoke again, he was leaning forward and speaking weightily, as though trying his utmost to make himself believed.  “We did not come here in pursuit of your father.  We had no idea that he or anyone else was here.”

The old man growled low in his throat, but he was still listening.

“If your father – or your mother – told you anything of their lives aboard _Enterprise_ , they will have told you that they were on a mission of exploration.  _Peaceful_ exploration,” he added with emphasis.  “The ship’s mission was to reach out, to discover new civilisations.  To _learn_ – not to conquer, or enslave, or kill.  That is still _Enterprise_ ’s mission.  I give you my solemn word, if your father is here he is in no danger from us.”

Listening, the doctor found herself wondering unwillingly if for possibly the first time in his life Jean-Luc was being disingenuous.  Certainly he was telling the truth regarding _Enterprise_ ’s mission, but he must surely know as well as she did that in law, murder was the only capital crime that had no statute of limitations.  No matter how much time had elapsed since the event, if Malcolm Reed had been facing a charge of murder then he was still a wanted man, and there was no other legal recourse for a Starfleet captain than to bring him back to Earth to face justice.

There was no doubt that the captain would go to almost any lengths to rescue his captured crewman, if Hayes was indeed still alive and not torn to pieces as they had thought.  But would he coldly and deliberately lie to this scared and protective innocent, perjuring himself in the process?

There was a moment of held breath.  The narrowed grey eyes ripped Jean-Luc’s soul apart, searching for falsehood.

“Brothers not die him,” Son said at last.  His speech was so mangled that one had to concentrate extremely hard to decipher it.  “Brothers ... wnt ...want Son.  Want ...I... me.”

“They have taken Crewman Hayes as a _hostage?_ ”

This was too complicated.  Son shook his head, frowning and confused.  “Want I.  Me. Not die me.  Not die him.”

“They understand we took you – so they’ve taken him to ensure your safety?”

“Not die him if not die me.  Un-rstand.  Yes. Un-rstand no-tail.  Faa–” He shook his head again, angrily this time.  “ _Far-ther_ un-rstand no-tail not-brothers.”

“ _Your father_ organised this?” Will couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

A third head-shake, with a lifted lip.  “ _Brothers._ ”

“You’re telling us that the – the creatures who attacked my landing party did so deliberately – as part of a plan they themselves had invented, to ensure your safe return.”  Jean-Luc was more diplomatic than Will in trying to hide his disbelief, but he couldn’t quite keep all of it out of his voice. 

Son glared.  “Brothers,” he repeated fiercely.  “Brothers – care brothers.”

“Sir!  If we scan the surface, we should be able to pick up Crewman Hayes’ bio-signs.  We can transport him out of danger!” said Worf.

The response to this was a torrent of snarling.  For all that Son’s grasp of English seemed to be fairly limited, particularly when it was spoken quickly, he had certainly understood that the Klingon was proposing the rescue of the hostage by some means that were probably (in his view) underhand.  It was the worst demonstration yet of the reality of his having been reared – as it seemed – to regard creatures such as those Worf had described as his ‘brothers’.  He seemed not even to attempt to speak, but his face was a twisted mask of threat as the snarls burst from his throat.

Given his age and frailty, the degree of threat he might actually present (particularly to Worf, who in size alone would have made three of him) was negligible.  As an indication of his lack of identity as a human, however, the effect was horrifying.  Katherine wondered if she was the only one who had begun to question even the possibility of returning him to Earth and trying to rehabilitate him into normal humanity.

“No, wait!” ordered the captain.  “I will take any action I deem necessary to safeguard my crewman.  That does not in any way indicate that I mean you any harm.  If your ‘brothers’ could be made to understand that, the situation for all of us would be considerably less dangerous!”

“Not die brothers!  Not die far-ther!” screamed Son in a fury.  His knuckles were white where they grasped the PADD, and it seemed all too likely that if it had been even a little less precious to him he would have used it as the only weapon he had.

“I do not intend to ‘die’ anyone!” Jean-Luc very rarely raised his voice.  He very rarely needed to, but he could thunder with the best when the need was there.  Even Worf blinked at the roar from his usually quietly-spoken commanding officer.

It was questionable whether it was the volume or the unmistakable note of authority that got through to their incensed guest.  He shrank sideways a little, lifting his arm bent with the hand dropping downwards in an obvious intention-movement of rolling submissively.  Above it his eyes were wide and wild with fear and anger and confusion.

“Captain.  Please.”  Katherine dipped between him and the den, and laid a gentle hand on the bony, shaking shoulder of its occupant.  “Son, trust us.  We mean you no harm.”

“No-tails harm,” he moaned.  “H’nt far-ther. Take him.... take him ‘way... die him....”

“Captain?  The scan?” asked Will, already poised to act.

The struggle was clear on Jean-Luc’s face for a moment, and then it cleared.  Even before he nodded, the doctor knew what his decision would be.  He did not want to alienate his unhappy guest, but his primary responsibility was undoubtedly to his crewman.  Even if Hayes’ life was not at immediate risk, he could not be declared safe by any means; giant wolves could not be thought trustworthy guards for him, even if they were indeed intelligent enough firstly to have come to the conclusion that the new arrivals had been responsible for Son’s disappearance and secondly to have formed and carried out a plan to secure a hostage for his well-being.

“By all means, Number One.  If he _is_ alive, and it’s at all possible to do so, bring him up.  But take care you don’t inadvertently bring up any of Son’s ‘brothers’ with him.”

“I’ll try to avoid that, sir.”  With a smile of hope and relief, Riker got himself out of Sickbay at speed.

Son’s look of despair was pitiable.  There was little doubt that he had made the connection with the way he himself had been whisked away from the planet’s surface, and suspected that Hayes was to be rescued by exactly the same method.

“Son.”  The captain looked back at him seriously.  “I realise that trust must be very hard for you.  But try to believe me.  Your ‘brothers’ do not need a hostage to make me treat you well, and I have not the slightest intention of killing your father.”

To that, there was no response.  The old man retreated once again to the back of the den and took refuge in his PADD.  A brush of the hand across his eyes might possibly have been because they found the bright lights of Sickbay uncomfortable, but he left it there for a moment before once more taking comfort in the only place where he could find it.


	11. Hayes

Consciousness was wet.

Hayes pulled his face out of the water with a gasp, crowing for air.

He was still alive.

That fact surprised him. 

His breathing apparatus was gone too, which both surprised and dismayed him.  He was breathing that contaminated atmosphere.

It didn’t smell weird or anything.  Actually it was kind of nice, fresh and woody, refreshing after so long cooped up in the ship’s recycled atmosphere.  But knowing what he knew about it, he would still have very much preferred not to smell it at all.

His hand groping at the newly tender area on the back of his head found a lump there like half a hen’s egg.  That did not surprise him at all; the pain of hitting it on something as he was knocked over backwards by the weight of a leaping wolf was the last thing he remembered.  Actually it was the last thing he would have expected to remember _at all_ , this side the Pearly Gates, but it appeared that Saint Peter and the heavenly chorus weren’t ready for him yet.

He was somewhat reluctant to raise his eyes from the sparkling depths of the stream in front of him.  The stream into which he had presumably been dunked by ... somebody.  At a guess, to bring him back to the land of the living.

The situation wasn’t going to get any prettier for not being looked at.

He raised his head.

A couple dozen pairs of blue eyes looked back at him impassively.  Their owners were standing or sitting in or around the stream in which he was partially lying.  Just here it was very shallow, so presumably they hadn’t been trying to drown him.

His arms and ankles were slightly sore, though the skin appeared to be unbroken.  This was more than he could say for his uniform, which was stretched and torn in a score of places.  It appeared that it had been a communal effort to carry him from the meadow, but it had been done carefully, inflicting as little damage on his person as possible.  His uniform, at a guess, didn’t count.  Certainly his breathing apparatus didn’t – perhaps they’d removed that in order to dunk him.  Although his air tank was still in position on his back, his air hose and face mask were nowhere to be seen.

He would have been other than human if he hadn’t felt the clutch of fear as he stared around at all those unblinking eyes.  His rifle was gone, presumably the shuttle was gone too (at least, he hoped the others had gotten away safely), and he was here alone, the prisoner of a pack of huge hairy wolfhounds who did not appear to want to eat him.

At least, not yet.

They were splendid animals.  Their coats were long and sleek, their slender heads tapering and beautifully proportioned.  Their large ears stood upright, with long tufts of fur springing from the base to lie on the mane that covered powerful shoulders.  The only thing that was slightly un-doglike about them was the tail, which was much longer than that of an average dog, though also plumed.  Perhaps it served to steady them in a sharp turn, the way a cheetah’s did.

“Hi, guys,” Hayes said quietly.  There had to be _some_ reason why he was still alive.  Could these animals possibly be _tame?_

The first thing he had to do was contact the ship and let them know he was okay.  Moving very slowly, so as not to startle them, he slid his hand towards his communicator.

That was a serious mistake.  They clearly understood about communicators.

As his hand fell back, the chorus of snarls subsided.

Well.  This was definitely different.

Maybe the rest of the landing party were all dead.  He tried to shut out that thought.

But if they weren’t, what was happening?  Why hadn’t he been beamed up to the ship?  Was it because he was too close to these damned wolves and they couldn’t separate his bio-sign yet?

Had the survivors just assumed he was a goner?  Fairness compelled him to admit that it would have been a reasonable assumption.  _He_ would have made it, if he’d seen a comrade being dragged off by predators.

So if they’d managed to get to the shuttlepod, presumably they’d left in it.  They might have taken casualties, and that would account for their haste to get back to the ship; but surely once there they’d run checks for his bio-signs?  That would tell them he was still alive.  Even if they couldn’t use the transporter for some reason, Lieutenant Worf wasn’t a quitter – he’d put together some way to mount a rescue attempt, even if he had to bring down reinforcements.  A second shuttlepod, with a few of the guys well-armed and well prepared for what they’d be facing when they got down here; if he wasn’t too far from the clearing it might not be impossible to get back there.  These were only animals.  Intelligent animals – he was already aware of that – but animals nonetheless.  If they’d wanted him dead he’d never have woken up, so presumably they wanted him alive.  And not communicating with the ship.

As he rose slowly and cautiously to his feet, the wolves watched him steadily.

He looked around, trying to guess in what direction the crash site might be.  If he could find his way back to that he could find his way to the meadow, which had only been a short distance away and within clear eyeshot.  The shuttlepod might still be there or it might not, but it represented his best chance of escape right now.

He was deep in woodland.  He’d examined the preliminary scans of the place as they headed down, and he thought he remembered enough of the topography to be able to make a guess at where he was in relation to the crash site; there weren’t that many streams in this area, and the direction of flow suggested he needed to be heading uphill from it.  But no sooner had he taken a step that way than the wolf nearest to him snapped at him, and the others growled.

The snapper was close enough to have made it a bite.  The teeth clipped together close enough to his groin to bring a cold sweat to his forehead at the thought of what kind of damage a bite with those jaws could have inflicted, but there was no doubt that it was a warning.  The mobile ears had flattened, and the blue eyes stared up at him threateningly.

“Not that way.  Right.  I get you.”

Did they want him to move in _any_ direction?

If they didn’t, an attempt to might not go down too well.  But he couldn’t stay here indefinitely.  Presumably even they couldn’t.  And there was a definite space in the crowd in one direction.

Maybe it was simply coincidence.  But he was starting to wonder if these animals did anything that amounted to coincidental.

“You want me to go that way?” he asked, pointing.

Hell, maybe the atmosphere was getting to him already.  He was actually acting like he expected these damn wolves to _answer_ him.

One of them, at the far side of that open space, gave a soft, encouraging ‘Wuff’.

“If that’s a ‘yes’, you just make sure this guy here understands that, will you?  ‘Cause I sure don’t want to lose the family jewels over a communications breakdown.”

With what he felt to be entirely justifiable caution, he extended a foot in that direction.

No reaction from his ‘guard’.  Warily, he took an actual step.  Still nothing.

It was probably anthropomorphism at its most extreme to imagine that the beast who had seemed to call him on wore a look of complacency as – emboldened by his success – Hayes walked slowly down what was effectively a lane.

He was perhaps a couple of meters away from the end of it when the wolf rose and walked away from him.  It was a big, beautiful animal, with a black coat slashed with silvery-white streaks; like patches of snow on a freezing black mountainside, or bright moonlight spilling into a dark forest, he thought irrelevantly.  He’d call it ‘Moonlight’.

The other wolves followed, making no attempt to touch him.  There was no escaping the realization that he was being quite deliberately led – and led away from any hope of rescue.  Trying to make a U-turn, however, was almost certainly doomed to failure.  Persisting in any such attempt could be extremely dangerous.  They might want him alive, but they also wanted him to understand his situation: he was a prisoner, pure and simple.  His wellbeing, if not his survival, depended on his obedience.

Well.  ‘While there’s life, there’s hope’ was an appropriate enough maxim for his predicament.  As long as he stayed alive, there was still a chance that _Enterprise_ could rescue him somehow.  There was no saying but that sooner or later events _might_ offer him half a chance to break loose and call the ship, and until then it seemed the wiser part of valor to play along.  The more cowed they thought him, perhaps the less vigilant they would be.

They traveled for perhaps a quarter of an hour, roughly following the course of the stream, which was joined and enlarged by another a little further down.  Eventually they dropped with it into a small gully, where presumably the force of thaw-fed spring floods at some point had helped to carve away the face of a low cliff at one side.  Boulders that littered the ground supported this theory; the lichen on them certainly indicated they’d been here a long while, and certainly it would have required a colossal weight of water to move them, but maybe there had been some change in the landscape that had reduced the stream to its present modest size.  Michael was a weapons specialist, not a geologist.

The front of the cliff-face was seamed and weathered.  At the base of it a jagged split opened on darkness.  Moonlight padded towards it without a pause.  At the entrance the wolf glanced around, gave another short, sharp bark and disappeared inside.

A cave.  Michael hesitated.  Much depended on how far it went into the earth, and of what rock the surrounding strata were composed.  Too far in, and even if he could somehow contrive to get hold of his communicator unobserved, the signal would not penetrate. 

Still, the chances of his getting to use his communicator as things stood were pretty poor anyway.  Just maybe, in the dark inside, they might improve.  And if his captors wanted him to go in, they would undoubtedly make life very, very uncomfortable for him if he resisted.

“Hope this isn’t you guys’ larder,” he joked a little feebly as he ducked his head to enter.

The entrance was low, and partly blocked by what looked like an old fall of rock.  The light gave out almost immediately, and Hayes held out his hands carefully, guiding himself by his fingertips against the wall.  The ceiling was hardly a couple of meters high at best, and he grazed the top of his scalp once or twice as he groped his way forward.

They passed through a cave of some sort.  The right-hand wall disappeared suddenly from his touch, and the change in the echoes of his footfalls told him that there was much more space around him, but he went on shuffling forward, feeling for each footstep and trying to ignore the thought that there might be some kind of sinkhole down here towards which he was being blindly led.  The floor remained relatively level, however, and in a minute or two the other wall returned.  Another section of the tunnel, and a soft sound from what sounded like about a meter in front of him said he was still being summoned onwards.

After he’d stumbled along for what seemed like a very long time, a faint smear of radiance appeared around what seemed to be a jink in the tunnel.  There must be some kind of crevice in the ceiling, he thought, allowing light from above to seep down and illuminate part of it.  At least that would allow him to see a little better for a few steps.

The light let him see that Moonlight was only a couple of paces ahead of him.  As the wolf turned its head to glance at him, the blue eyes flashed oddly in the reflected glow.

He turned the corner, and everything changed.  He skidded to a halt, his boots stuttering on the damp stone.

“Hell’s teeth, what–?”


	12. Riker

“Sorry, sir.  There just aren’t any Human bio-signs down there.”  Geordi turned from the scanner as despondently as though it was his fault there weren’t.  “I’ve run the scans over and over again.  Unless they’ve managed to bury him or get him out of the country, he’s … well, he’s not alive anymore.”

Riker felt such a wave of bitter disappointment that for a moment he could hardly breathe.  Son had been so sure, so … convincing; it had seemed that all they had to do was track down Hayes’ bio-signs and transport him out, and then they could concentrate on working out a peaceful solution to the problem of what to do with their ‘guest’ and – far more problematically – his father, if indeed Reed really was still alive down there.  But it just went to prove that these were _wild_ _animals_ they were dealing with; they might have tolerated the two Humans they’d grown up with, but why the heck should they regard any other as anything other than food?

“I’d better notify the captain,” he said heavily.  “I don’t suppose there’s any point in continuing the scans.”

Geordi shrugged.  “It can’t do any harm.”  His expression doubted whether it could do any good either, but it was clear enough that he was reluctant to abandon even a hopeless search.

“Well.  Run a scheduled scan just in case.  Every hour or so till we leave orbit.”

He returned to the Bridge, where Data was giving the captain an update on the results from the study of the mysterious phenomenon.  Not that there was much to give, it seemed, because although the thing was now behaving in a way that suggested it was somehow attracted to the approaching planet – eddying towards it – nobody had been able to explain why this should be so.

“It could possibly be reacting to the planet’s gravitational field,” the android continued, “but the pattern of movement appears random.  I will have to continue my study to see if some alternative explanation presents itself.”

“Sir, there seems to be no sign of Crewman Hayes down on the planet.”  Will made his report with composed sorrow.  “We’ve checked and re-checked the scans.”

Deanna had just arrived, having paid Sickbay a visit en route.  She was plainly surprised and bewildered by the news.  “I sensed no deceit in Son,” she said earnestly.  “He’s still very anxious about our intentions, but he believes what he said is the truth.”

“But it seems it is not.”  The captain heaved a sigh; he must have hoped that their crewman was not lost after all – and lost in such a way.  “But will he believe that?”

=/\=

He did not.

It was hardly to be expected that having grown up in such primitive conditions, the word ‘scanner’ would have much significance for him.  At any rate, even persistent attempts to explain the concept to him, and convince him that the device’s searches had an exceptionally high rate of accuracy, failed to even dent his conviction that Hayes was alive and well, and being held hostage for his safe return.

“He is telling the truth as he perceives it,” Deanna said again afterwards, when they gathered in the conference room to debate the situation.  “He has absolute confidence in what these ‘brothers’ of his have done.”

“There’s only one possibility I can imagine,” Geordi observed.  “As Data said earlier, according to the scans, the rock in that area is very dense, but it’s seamed with fractures – probably liable to a lot of earth movement.   The biggest concentration of these wolf creatures right now is in a gully, not far away from where the shuttle landed.  There are caves there.  Hayes _could_ be being kept in them on purpose, to keep him out of our view.”

“But would wolves _think_ along those lines?” asked the captain.  “Could they be actually capable of _understanding_ the presence of a starship in orbit?”

The engineer shrugged slightly.  “If we accept the idea they can take a hostage, we’re already accepting they have a higher degree of intelligence than wolves on earth.  Seems to me that Son has some means of communicating with them that we don’t understand, and if Reed’s still alive he may have the same kind of ability – and could conceivably be guiding them now.  Alternatively, as he and Sato served on a starship, they might have been able to give their child some kind of idea of it.  So one way or the other, the wolves may have _some_ kind of concept of what they’re dealing with – probably not too realistic, but enough to allow them to interact with it.”

“Have we tried to contact Hayes ourselves?” asked Dr. Pulaski, who had presumably come along to see how matters stood, and to report that Worf was recovering well.

Data nodded.  “Several times, without response.”

Picard sat back in his chair.  “So.  Recommendations.”

There was a somewhat doubtful silence.

“Have you received any response from Starfleet, captain?” asked Will.  “Regarding Lieutenant Reed?”

“Yes.  Admiral Hanson contacted me an hour ago.”  The captain grimaced, but probably more from the complexity of the situation than the memory of the conversation with the admiral, with whom he was known to be on friendly terms.  “Naturally, Starfleet find it hard to believe that he could possibly still _be_ alive, but if he _is_ , then the legal situation is unequivocal: he is still facing charges of first-degree murder, and must be brought back to answer to them.  There is no leeway that can be extended, regardless of his age or condition or how he came to be here.  We _must_ remove him for transportation to Earth.”

Deanna’s mouth tightened.  So did Katherine’s.  “I doubt whether Son’s ‘brothers’ will make that easy for you, Captain,” the doctor commented a little acidly.

“My orders give me no option, Doctor.  I may find them personally distasteful and I make no doubt that they may prove enormously difficult to carry out without resorting to force, but a way must be found.  Lieutenant Reed is a Starfleet officer gone AWOL, and as such it is my duty to retrieve him and deliver him to justice – those were the Admiral’s exact words.”  He paused before continuing, his brow so dark that it was plain those words had been far from welcome to him.

“It seems to me that the best, if not the only, course is for us to establish if the lieutenant is still alive, and the only way to do that beyond a shadow of a doubt is to speak to him in person.”

“But how do you propose to do that, Captain?” Geordi asked, startled.  “Even if he still had his old communicator, I doubt if it’d respond to one of our frequencies.”

“The captain requested me, just before we came here, to send out a signal using the frequency used by the old NX-class ships,” Data said almost apologetically.  “There was no response.  This might be because the communicator (if the lieutenant _has_ one) is switched off, or it may have ceased to function.  From a technical point of view, kept in a suitable environment with adequate maintenance, that type of unit _could_ still be in working condition even after all this time; but it must be regarded as doubtful whether the environment here could be classed as ‘suitable’, and it is unlikely in the extreme that the lieutenant would have the wherewithal to carry out adequate maintenance, including an appropriate power source.”

“Not to mention any reason to keep it switched on,” Katherine interposed dryly.  “If he was here of his own volition he wouldn’t want to advertise his presence, and if he was stranded here he probably knew about that satellite.  He wouldn’t be expecting anyone to risk coming to his rescue.”

“Maybe that shuttlepod was trying,” suggested Will.  “Do we have any news on that?”

“Nothing definitive.”  Geordi looked frustrated.  “I’ve had my people do computer enhancements on the photographs the landing party brought back and there was definitely an explosion of some sort in the engine compartment.  The evidence suggests it was the cause of the crash, and though we’re not familiar with the environmental processes on this planet, the weathering of the impact crater seems consistent with the accident happening not long after Reed’s ‘disappearance’.  But as for whether it happened before or after a landing, or whether the shuttle was simply doing a low pass and developed engine trouble, I’m afraid we can’t say.”

“More mystery.  The more we find out about this place, the weirder it seems to get.”  Riker looked across at the captain.  “Sir, I think you’re right that we need to find out once and for all whether Lieutenant Reed _is_ actually still alive.  Obviously, if he’s not, that particular issue ceases to be a problem.

“But it then raises the issue of how we convince Son of that fact without his believing w _e_ were responsible.  Because he clearly believes we came here to kill his father, and if we find Reed and then come back to the ship and announce he’s dead, that’s going to look like a hell of a coincidence to someone who at least _believes_ he left him alive.”

“His brain functions seem remarkably intact, considering his age,” said Katherine, troubled.  “I wouldn’t have said he would have any difficulty understanding the concept of death, or recognizing that it had happened – even to someone he loved.  There may be some emotional trauma, some deliberate blocking out of the fact; maybe he simply couldn’t bear to accept he was finally alone.  He hardly ever speaks about his mother, so I’m assuming she’s been dead some time.”

“Counsellor?” The captain cocked an eyebrow.

Deanna sighed.  “It’s possible.  Being separated from almost all human contact in the way Son has been would have enormous emotional consequences.  But I don’t get any impression from him that he’s refusing recognition of something.”

Picard frowned down at his linked hands.  “I see no alternative.  We must go down to the planet again.  If we take Son with us, it will at least be evidence of our good intentions when his ‘brothers’ see him safe and well.  Then, perhaps we may be able to establish whether Crewman Hayes is dead or alive – if the latter, we may have to consent to an exchange of hostages.”

“You mean _leave_ him there?” asked Katherine, horrified.

“That must be his decision, Doctor.”  His voice was very level.  “He has grown up on this world and established a familial relationship with some of its creatures.  Everything he has ever known and loved is here.  At a guess, he has very little time left, and I hazard that he would be most unwilling to spend that time in an utterly alien environment, removed from everything that is familiar and dear to him.

“Naturally, he will be given the choice.  We will make it absolutely clear that if he comes with us he will be given every comfort and consideration.  But in the last analysis, the choice is his to make – and I strenuously doubt whether he will choose to leave.”

“If Lieutenant Reed _is_ alive, that may well change his mind – if not force his hand,” said Will shrewdly.  “At a guess, he’d feel the need to come along and protect his father.  As much as possible, that is.”  He thought uncomfortably that once the runaway was delivered into the hands of the law, Son would have very little influence on events.  Depending on the goodwill (or ill-will) of those in charge of the prisoner, he might even be completely separated from the father he’d come to Earth solely to protect.  His case then – effectively alone in a world that was utterly alien to him – would be pitiable indeed.

“Captain.”  Data had been silent for a while, listening attentively, but now spoke up.  “According to my calculations, in Earth years Lieutenant Reed would now be two hundred and forty-five years old.  Even given the extraordinary extension of human life that this planet appears to bestow, would not Starfleet risk extreme public opprobrium for subjecting a man of that age and probable infirmity to the stress and distress of a trial?”

“That may well be, Commander.  Nevertheless, Starfleet is subject to the law, and as I said earlier, the legal position is absolutely clear.  Admiral Hanson admitted that the decision may well ultimately be taken that Mister Reed is now unfit to stand trial, but that decision must apparently be made by qualified psychiatrists and psychologists acting for both the defence and the prosecution, who must testify to the court that they consider him ‘mentally incompetent’ – if, indeed, he is.  My explicit orders are to secure his person and deliver him to the nearest Starbase for onward transportation to Earth – with, of course, every consideration for his health and wellbeing.”

There was another silence.  Will suspected that he wasn’t the only one trying to think of a way to circumvent those orders, but although the captain had already indicated his own deep distaste for the task, his obligation to carry it out was clear.  It was his duty to do so, and he would not shrink from it, though at a guess that bit about ‘every consideration for his health and wellbeing’ had been his own contribution to the agenda.

By now, Will himself had done a little research into the background of what up till now had been a scandal touched on only lightly during history classes at the Academy.  The records said that Lieutenant Malcolm Reed had been ‘accused of a capital crime’.  Although never explicitly stated, this had almost certainly been the murder of his own senior officer, the most heinous of crimes made even more monstrous and even less explicable by the suggestions at the time that the two officers had enjoyed an amicable, even a friendly, relationship.  Certainly their interactions up till that point had suggested a real warmth of regard between the two men.  But whatever the reasons for the killing might have been, their captain had felt that there was enough evidence to place Reed before a Court Martial for it; and for this particular crime, the memory of the law was long.  Justice, so long deferred, must not be evaded completely.

 _“‘Fiat justitia, ruat c_ _ælum’,”_ he muttered.

“‘Let justice be done, though the heavens fall.’  A quotation attributed to the Ancient Roman Lucius Annæus Seneca, otherwise known as Seneca the Younger, but used for the first time in English legal jurisprudence by William Watson in AD 1601, defending the principle of ‘justice at all costs’.”  Data, of course, had the information at his command.  “In later versions of the legend recounted by Seneca, this principle became known as ‘Piso’s Justice’, a term that characterizes sentences that are carried out or passed from retaliation – whose intentions are technically correct, but morally wrong.” 

“You’re surely not saying a murderer should escape justice, Will?” asked Katherine curiously.

“Justice, no.  Revenge, yes.  I guess it made the authorities look pretty foolish when Reed slipped out of the net, and it was never established that he’d gone deliberately or even willingly.  I’d just feel happier if I could be sure that we weren’t aiding and abetting Starfleet saving face rather than making sure a murderer gets what he deserves.”

“That is not our decision to make, Number One!”  By the sharpness of his CO’s voice, Riker knew he’d hit a nerve.

“I know that, sir,” he replied, with an apologetic nod.  “But surely our duty to obey orders doesn’t preclude our right to make moral judgments about them.”

“That is the right and the duty of every civilised human being,” Picard returned shortly, “but unfortunately, at this moment I have the duty to secure an absconder from justice – and if it is within my power, I intend to see it done.

“Doctor, please prepare our ‘guest’ for travel back to the planet, and do your best to make him understand what we are trying to achieve.  If Crewman Hayes is indeed still alive, I want a peaceful exchange of hostages.

“In view of Son’s age, I propose to take him down by shuttlepod rather than subject him to the transporter. I imagine he will find it less intimidating, and it would probably minimise the stress to his body.”

“And do I tell him about his father?” she asked.

“No.  That, I ask no-one else to undertake.  Heaven knows, I’m not exactly relishing it myself – but needs must.

“Number One, arrange for two security officers to meet us in the shuttlebay in half an hour.  They must be armed, but under no circumstances are they to use weapons until or unless we are actually attacked.  Make sure they understand that.

“And have Chief O’Brien standing by in the transporter room.  We may need to be brought up in a hurry.  If needs be, the shuttlecraft can be retrieved later.”

The time for protest was past.  The captain’s duty was unpleasant enough without any more indirect reproaches from his officers making it worse.  “Yes, Captain.”

And so the meeting closed.


	13. Picard

Owing to the limited space available in the shuttlepods, the captain had decided to fly the first, carrying one of the two security men he had requested, while Data piloted the other, carrying Son and the second guard.  But not only the security detail met Data and the captain in the shuttlebay, bringing Son with them, but Doctor Pulaski arrived too, wearing the expression of one who will not be gainsaid.

“This man is still my patient,” she said briskly.  “It’s my duty as a doctor to see him to safety, Captain – and on that score you are unable to countermand me.” This last was added with a somewhat effortful smile, to which he responded with even more of an effort.  It would mean he would have to revise his passenger distribution slightly, but he had already been contemplating requesting her to accompany them.  If he succeeded in securing his intended prisoner, her help might well be invaluable.

“One moment, Captain,” she added in a low voice, drawing him to one side.  “There’s one question I don’t think we’ve addressed.  What if Lieutenant Reed is being kept alive _only_ by remaining on the planet?  If this ‘entity’ has had some effect on it that allows living things on it to exist far beyond their natural life span – but the effect ceases once they’re removed from its influence?”

The captain closed his eyes briefly.  He had actually contemplated such a possibility during the sleepless hours of the previous night, envisioning the hapless prisoner crumbling into dust as he stepped from the transporter pad.  However, such an outcome seemed more in keeping with one of the more lurid cinema productions than actual real life, and he had pushed it to the back of his mind with an effort.  “Do you think there may be any scientific basis for such an expectation?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted.  “But there seems to be no scientific explanation for his having lived for more than two hundred years.  All I’m saying is that something is happening here that we don’t understand.”

“On that, we absolutely agree.”  He tried to keep the weariness from his voice.  “But I cannot refrain from taking him into custody on the excuse that his continued existence _might_ depend on his remaining here.  If I had proof of that, it would be a different matter.

“As it is – my hands are tied.  Until or unless circumstances dictate otherwise, I must do my duty.”

Katherine looked at him dubiously, but said no more. 

She had evidently persuaded Son to don boots and warm clothing, presumably obtained from the Quartermaster, and he carried a holdall that presumably held more, plus whatever necessaries she had been able to coax him into accepting – including, at  guess, the precious PADD containing the archive recordings of his parents.  Even the smallest size clothes available hung loosely on him, but he seemed to have benefited so much from even this brief stay on board ship that the prospect of returning him to the existence of loss and privation that awaited him was even less bearable than it had seemed before.

He, however, seemed buoyant.  He clearly felt that the hostage ploy had worked, and that all that remained was the exchange of prisoners.  At a guess, he had taken the captain’s assurance that he had ‘no intention of killing your father’ to mean that both of them were safe.

To destroy that faith was like hitting a child, but to allow him to blithely and innocently lead them to the man they had no option but to take prisoner and remove from the planet would be utterly despicable.

It was too easy to imagine that if he knew what was being planned, Son would refuse utterly to co-operate.  Much depended on exactly what this ‘communication’ between him and the wolves consisted of, and how it operated.  It might even be possible for him to somehow warn them that all bets were off, and then Hayes’ fate would be sealed.  Whatever the consequences, however, Jean-Luc could not bring himself to use deception against the man.

As they reached the second shuttlepod’s open door, the captain laid a hand gently on Son’s sleeve. “Before we leave, there is something I need to explain to you.”

“Find – Hayes. Safe.”  The old man nodded happily.  “Brothers not die him, you not die I, you not die Far-ther.”

His faith in a cheerful outcome was unbearable.  The captain could feel the muscles in his jaw clenching, the way those in his abdomen were already clenched.  “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple.”

Suspicion flashed into the grey eyes.  “Hayes _safe_ ,” he insisted.  “Trust brothers.  Trust Son!”

“I do trust you.” He took a deep breath, and spoke slowly.  “But your father has been accused of committing a very serious crime.  I am under orders to take him back to Earth to stand trial, and if he is found guilty he will probably face the rest of his life in prison.”

It was not clear whether Son understood every word of this.  But he certainly got the gist of it.  The suspicion chilled into a freezing glitter, and he stood absolutely still, apparently thinking the thing through carefully.  “If _not_ guilty?”

Jean-Luc wished with all his soul that he could promise that if brought to trial and found innocent, or even found unfit to stand trial at all, Reed would be given transportation wherever he wished to go – even if it was back to this isolated planet with its psychotropic atmosphere.  But he very much feared that even if the lieutenant somehow managed to survive both transportation and the whole wretched and probably long-drawn-out process of Court Martial, and left court a free man, there would be little appetite among Starfleet’s upper echelons for the effort and expense of taking him home to die. “He will be well cared for, in either event,” he said.  “No-one will harm him.  You have my word on that.”

“No-tails’ ‘word’.” His lip curled.  “No-tails hate Far-ther.  Only Mother loved.  She told I–” he struggled with the word –“pro...tect him.”

“Son.  We do not ‘hate’ your father.  But we want, we _need_ , to establish the truth of what happened, and without him that cannot happen.”  He paused, and took a desperate gamble.  “Your father was known among the … the ‘no-tails’ as a man of great honour.  Take me to him.  Please.  Let me talk to him, and you will find he comes with me willingly.”

Once again he endured that long, searching stare.

Finally, Son nodded. “Far-ther ... lead pack many year,” he said quietly.  “Far-ther ... know no-tails. Will...know truth.” He turned away, and with difficulty and the help of the two security men, got up into the shuttlepod.  Data was already in the pilot’s seat, starting the pre-flight checks.

For another long moment Jean-Luc held Katherine’s gaze.  _I hope you know what you’re doing_ , it said.

 _So do I_ , he thought as he turned away to climb into the other shuttlepod.

=/\=

It was early evening by the time the two small craft set down again in the empty meadow.  The sun was westering, and a cool little wind fluttered the leaves of the trees all around them.

Data and Son were the only people not wearing breathing apparatus when the doors opened.  At a guess, Katherine had given her patient some kind of simple explanation for them, for although as the landing party joined up he cast curious glances at the others’ masks, he seemed far more interested in making the hostage exchange than in prolonged discussion about ‘no-tails’’ inability to breathe what to him was ordinary air.

“There are several wolves watching us,” Data said in a low voice, studying his scanner.  “They are concealed in that thick stand of vegetation over there.”

Jean-Luc glanced at Son.  “Did you know they would be there?”

He nodded.  “Wait brother,” he replied simply.

“Did you _call_ them?” asked Katherine.

This seemed a little more complicated.  Finally, with a frown of puzzlement, “Not call ... _feel_.”

“Do you know where Crewman Hayes is being held?” The captain was normally as interested in extra-sensory communication as anyone else, but the fate of his missing officer was weighing heavily on his mind.

Son nodded again. “Not far.”  He led the way without hesitation.  Although the two guards kept watch, it was only Data’s scanner that revealed the presence of the escorts that moved noiselessly through the woods around them.

Even in spite of his worry, Jean-Luc could not help noticing the beauty of the landscape around them.  It was apparently autumn; the level sunshine lit many of the trees in brilliant shades of bronze and gold, while beyond them rank upon serried rank of mountains reared against the sky, streaked with snow that was already tinted lilac where the shadows gathered.  He could guess that the air would smell fresh and clean, with perhaps a hint of snow, but he was certainly not going to take the risk of lifting his visor to sample it.

“It’s absolutely beautiful, isn't it?” The doctor too had been glancing around her.  “It reminds me of a holiday I had once in the Rocky Mountains.”

“Beautiful, yes – perhaps too beautiful for its own good,” the captain said darkly.  “Perhaps it’s just as well for the inhabitants that those chemicals you found _are_ natural to the atmosphere.  It certainly offers them a measure of protection against anyone contemplating founding a colony here.”

“Perhaps that is why no-one has ever done so.”  Data helped Son to negotiate a slightly awkward patch in the vague path he seemed to be following.  Ahead of them the ground was definitely broken, and the android announced that according to the map, this was the area where the caves were sited – and where the wolves had appeared to be gathered.

They still were.As the landing party approached what seemed to be a short, rocky slope into a gully, there was movement, and next moment Jean-Luc got his first sight of the creatures that had attacked the earlier away team and – if Son was to be believed – kidnapped one of them.

He was familiar with the appearance of Earth wolves, and had expected something along the same lines; now, he was startled by the size of the animals that stood up to watch their approach.  Although not particularly heavily built, except around the shoulders, they were very tall; almost the height of a Great Dane.  The tips of the largest’s ears would probably be on a level with the average human waist.

He was next struck by the intelligence of their expressions.  They exhibited no sign of fear or anxiety; they were simply watchful.  It was hard to escape the immediate impression that they were completely aware of what was going on, and the idea that his missing ensign might indeed be being held hostage suddenly seemed far less absurd than it had done previously.

As Son reached the foot of the slope, the wolves came to him.  At once he dropped to all fours.  They were obviously welcoming him back, but their behaviour was not like that of a pet, as he had expected, and Son’s was oddly wolflike.  There was much mouth-licking and nuzzling and playful pushing, and the new clothes were thoroughly investigated.  A couple of well-grown puppies dug their teeth into loose folds of the jumper and tugged at it.

“Eyes good!” said Son as he finally stood up again, gently detaching the playful puppies.  “See brothers good!  Doctor make weller?  I is ... is... grr-grrateful?”

“Yes, I did.”  Her voice was soft.  “You’re welcome.”

“Find Hayes.  Safe.  No-tails take him away. And captain–” his tone chilled – “speak Far-ther.”

The wolves parted silently to let the landing party through.  The mouth of the cave was black-dark, but the security personnel were both carrying flashlights, and these lit up the inside as they entered, Son again leading the way.

It was narrow near the entrance, partially blocked by an old fall (probably due to that earth movement Data had mentioned earlier) but it was possible to negotiate a way past it.  A short way inside, the space opened out to a modest area that offered flat, sheltered lying, and in a corner of it a nursing bitch raised her head to survey the strange visitors with a flat blue hostile stare across her single puppy.

The cave narrowed again at the far side and became a tunnel that bent right and then turned sharply left.  Son led the way along it without hesitation, and the landing party followed him.

The torchlight precluded them realising that there was already light ahead of them, so that when the tunnel turned again and opened out into another, much smaller cave the sudden extra illumination came as a surprise. 

Hayes seemed to have been seated at the other side of the small space, leaning against the wall and probably half asleep.  As the new arrivals entered he was scrambling to his feet, blinking in the sudden white brilliance; it was probably quite blinding after hours spent with only the gentle glow of the single flame hovering over a pool of fat in a hollow stone beside him.  “Captain – Captain Picard!”

“Crewman.”  Though not usually demonstrative, the captain stepped forward and put a glad hand on the young man’s shoulder, almost reassuring himself he really was still alive and well.  Unobtrusively, Katherine pressed a hypospray to Hayes’ neck – presumably some kind of antidote to whatever of the atmospheric contamination he’d inhaled since his capture – then ran a scanner over him and nodded confirmation; he was quite unhurt, though at a guess he’d need additional treatment after his return to the ship.  One of the security men had brought a spare set of breathing equipment, and Hayes donned it, inhaling deeply of the clean air in the tank.

Son had not paused.  He had slipped to the opposite side of the cave, where the ceiling dipped low.  There, there was what appeared at first glance to be a long mound of furs; but at his approach it sprouted heads and paws, and transformed itself into several large wolves that sat up and greeted him affectionately.

They did not stand, however. They were forming part of what actually _was_ a long heap of furs, albeit rather smaller than it had originally appeared.  And in the middle of it, instantly recognisable from his photograph even despite the passage – incredibly – of over two hundred years, was Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

His hair was perfectly white, and thin.  He had a long white beard, and he was so emaciated with age that it was astonishing he still had the strength to draw breath.  But his faded eyes watched the newcomers steadily over his son’s shoulder; and there was no doubt that he knew perfectly well who they were – and, indeed, had been waiting for them.

Jean-Luc stepped towards him, watching the open tenderness with which father and son embraced, and for the first time felt the full loathsomeness of the duty he could not evade.  Even the wolves seemed to be staring at him with distrust and distaste.

“Lieutenant.”  He waited until the embrace ended before he said it.

“Captain – Picard.”  The English voice was no more than a whisper.

“Mister Reed, you were a serving Starfleet officer – and I believe from your records, an exemplary one until events intervened.”  He paused.

“Yes,” came the whispering voice.  “I understand – duty.  Before – everything.”

Was that absolution?  Or was that idea just wishful thinking?  But it tallied perfectly with the historical accounts that Reed had been an absolute stickler for duty aboard the NX-01.

A claw-like hand crept from beneath the furs.  Between him and the angle of the wall was a long, low heap of small rocks, arranged with what seemed like loving care, and the bony fingers touched the nearest like a caress.  Like a farewell.

Son had obviously expected there to be some kind of discussion.  His face was a study in shock.  No words came, just a long wail of pain as he realised no discussion was necessary.  His father knew what the ‘no-tails’ had come for, and was, indeed, willing to go with them.

The hand wavered towards his face, and stroked it.  “Son,” whispered Reed.  “Always loved. Stay – Hoshi. Stay – brothers.  Not ... alone.”

 _“Far-ther alone,”_ sobbed Son.

“Father always–” He touched the chest where the tattooed chevron was hidden.  “And always–.” He gestured towards the rocks.  “Made me – kept _us_ – human.”

As he slowly pushed off the fur that covered him, the wolves that had been keeping him warm shifted away with anxious, plaintive sounds.

He was wearing a garment that was so old it was threadbare to holes.  It was patched almost everywhere.  But where the original fabric remained, it could be seen that it had once been blue; and over the shoulders lay the faded piping that had once been red.

“Captain, for pity’s sake let me get a stretcher sent down.  He’ll never be able to walk.”  Katherine’s voice was cracking with distress.

Jean-Luc nodded, and ordered Data to lift the lieutenant; in this confined space under the sloping ceiling, the android’s strength would provide the most effective assistance, and both of them would have to move back to get space to stand up.  He did not think it was imagination that the discomfort of simply being gently moved fetched a stifled gasp from Reed, but as soon as he was on his own unsteady feet he put off the helping hands that would have continued to support him.

He faced the captain.  As best he could manage, he stood upright, and his gaze was clear and steady, if a little sad.  “Lieutenant Malcolm Reed – of the Starship _Enterprise_ – surrenders his person to Starfleet custody.” Perhaps it had been the long years of speaking nothing but rudimentary sentences that had lamed his tongue, but now speech seemed to come more fluently, almost as it must have done all those years ago. “I only wish – that history–”  As he uttered the words ‘surrenders his person’ he had formally extended his arm, and Jean-Luc had taken the briefest and lightest hold of his wrist, accepting the gesture.  But the sentence was never to be completed, because _history_ was uttered on a sigh, and Reed folded up, crumpling bonelessly into the heap of distraught wolves.

 _“Far-ther!”_ Son shrieked.

Katherine pushed them all out of her way, but it was already plain that there was nothing to be done.  For all these years, the lieutenant had waited to discharge his duty.  Now it was finally done, and the effort had simply been too great.  After a moment she rose and stepped back, shaking her head.

It might have been some relief if Son had railed, but he accepted his loss quietly.  Strangely quietly, after the first moments of grief.

“Far-ther happy,” he said sadly, sitting back on his heels.  “Son saw.  Many years waiting.”

“Waiting – to be _recaptured?_ ” The captain spoke with difficulty.  The knowledge of his own responsibility for this outcome was crushing.

“Waiting – honour. Lost. Captain – bring back.”  Tears tracked through the furrows of age on his face, and a big black and white wolf licked them off, whining.  “Not want go Mh-mother without.”

“Dear Lord,” whispered the doctor.

“Can be with Mother now.”  He leaned over and began shakily moving the stones.

“One moment, please.” Data put out a hand.  “With the captain’s permission, I believe we could create a more appropriate resting-place for your parents.”

Son paused, and then shook his head.  “Is among brothers.  Stay among brothers. Would want.”

“Can I give you a hand with that, sir?” asked Hayes gently.  “I didn’t know your father, but I think he must have been a fine officer.  I’d be glad to help you.”

“Brothers say – good man.  Show r–rre–respect.  Talked – Far-ther smile.”

Hayes achieved a wan smile of his own.  “I told him about my great-great-great-great-grandfather, sir.  Seems they served together. My grandfather was one of his team when Enterprise first launched.   Lots of family tradition about the NX-01 – grandfather Matthew always said Reed would never have done a runner.”

 _“Never,”_ said Son emphatically.  He nodded.  “Hayes – help honour.”  Then unexpectedly, he looked up at the captain.  “Captain help honour?”

“It would be my privilege,” answered Jean-Luc huskily.

In the event everyone helped; even the wolves picked up stones in their jaws and carried them carefully to the other side of the small cave.  Data went outside briefly to advise _Enterprise_ that the exchange had been safely made, but there would be a short delay before their return; when he came back, he told the captain in a low voice that he believed the wolves out there knew what had happened, because they were now lying down in absolute silence, almost as though mourning.  Even the puppies were still.

The body they uncovered from beneath the stones had been dead for some considerable time, and had mummified in the dry atmosphere.  Hoshi Sato had been laid on her side as though sleeping, her hair carefully combed and a fur laid over her.  “No-tails come for she. Brothers pro-tect.  Far-ther make ship die,” Son said proudly.  With gentle, reverent hands he lifted the fur aside, and with the captain’s help arranged his father’s body so that his parents lay as they must have done in life, with Reed’s upper arm laid protectively around his lover’s shoulders and her head tucked beneath his chin.  Then the fur was replaced, and one by one the stones were piled over them with loving care.

“Done.” Son was satisfied at last.  “Will join soon. Brothers will help.”

“Son.” Katherine put a hand on his shoulder.  “Please.  Come with us and let us look after you in comfort.  You have no reason to stay here now.”

He was still kneeling beside the mound of stones, and when he looked up it was apparent that the effort of helping the reburial had worn him to exhaustion; but nevertheless, he looked more at peace than they had ever seen him.  The wolves who had surrounded his father pushed around him, uttering little loving growls.  “ _Family_ is reason,” he answered. “ _Home_ is reason.”

“But if I am not mistaken, the winter is coming,” said Jean-Luc quietly.  “Life must be very hard here, when the snow comes.”

The old man nodded.  “But if see sp-sprring, will be _my_ spring.  _My_ home.  _My_ brothers.” His fingers caressed the black fur that his father had lain beneath for so long, waiting and hoping for his honour to be given back to him.  “Die, die with my own.”

“Is there anything we can leave you that will make your life easier?” asked the captain.

“Have already given big thing: Far-ther honour. Son grr-rateful.  Brothers grateful.”

“In spite of the fact that it caused his death?”

A faint shrug, and a fainter smile.  “Death – take him Mother. Honour – make clean.  Die happy from captain.”

For all his stumbling, poorly-pronounced speech, it was deeply eloquent of his feelings.  Jean-Luc found that even he himself found words hard to come by as Son thrust out a hand.

“Not know no-tail thanks.  Brother gives foot – is trust.”

“Our gesture means something of the same.” Gently he guided the bony hand into a careful handshake.  For all its thinness and frailty, there was still strength there; maybe he might yet live to see another spring.  “I wish you well.”

Son nodded around at them all.  “Good hunting.”  Then he lay down on the heap of furs, drawing the black one over him, and the wolves lay down and snuggled against him.  “Far-ther sleep easy, Son sleep easy,” he said softly.  Then he closed his eyes.

The dismissal could not have been plainer.  The rest of the landing party quietly made their farewells, and then, largely ignored by the wolves, they made their way out of the cave.

Outside, the sun was now almost resting on the shoulder of the mountain beneath it, and much of the world was swallowed up in shadow.  The colours where the sunlight still touched were deep and rich, and the temptation was greater than ever to unfasten the safety mask and draw great breaths of the still, clear air.

Needless to say, nobody gave in to it.  Careful not to step on any of the silent wolves lying among the rocks, they made their way back to the slope and Data guided them back to the shuttlepods.

They had almost reached them when they heard it.

Howl on howl, piercing the air as though to reach towards the remote and star-sprinkled sky: infinitely lonely, achingly sad.  At least, so it seemed to their human ears; long rising and falling ululations of grief, ringing out to echo and re-echo among the lilac-shaded peaks of snow.

Maybe Son was there among his brothers, his head tilted back, his eyes closed and throat quivering with the intensity of his sorrow.  Maybe he heard it only in his dreams, where he wandered again with Lieutenant Malcolm Reed and Ensign Hoshi Sato, and it was the sound of a life left far behind.


	14. Picard

“Captain.  Please come in.”

“Counsellor.  I apologise for the lateness of the hour.”

“It’s no trouble at all.  I’m here whenever you need to talk.”

Her room was like herself – cool and elegant.  The flower still sat in the vase on the table, and as he seated himself Jean-Luc found himself almost incredulous that it should still be there, breathing its faint perfume out on the air.

She brought him wine.  Normally he was quite an abstemious man, but normally she would have asked first.  She set the glass down in front of him and sat down, watching him seriously.

He picked up the drink, but didn’t immediately taste it.  Instead he sat cradling the bowl between his palms, studying the light in the deep crimson heart of it.

“And so the mystery goes on,” she said musingly, at last.

He gave a huff of a laugh, with very little humour in it.  “The ‘phenomenon’ accelerated towards the planet during our visit.  Then, almost to the minute of our departure, it slowed.  Now, it’s drifting ... exactly as it did before.

“I’ve given orders to maintain course and speed to match it when it arrives – keeping a safe distance, of course.  The science team will watch it, study it.  They already have probes ready to monitor any developments when it actually reaches the planet.  But quite frankly, I’ve little expectation of them finding out anything about it.”

He was silent again for a long time.

“ _How_ can two human beings live for over two hundred years?” he asked finally. “ _Was_ it something to do with being exposed to that phenomenon for a part of every year?  I can’t help but speculate that the two things must be connected.  But proving that connection is a completely different thing.”

Had she been less wise, she might have been startled by his suddenly setting down the glass and walking to the viewing port.  Far below, Hir’vaQ II turned serenely, green and blue, streaked with cloud that was iridescent with the coming dawn.

Whatever it was, the mysterious ‘phenomenon’ would arrive later in the day if it maintained its current course and speed.  Then to any distant watching eye, the planet would vanish, just as mysterious as the shroud that wrapped it; its image might gleam elsewhere, but it would be hidden.

 _Why_ had that sudden acceleration taken place?  Was it a coincidence?  As much a coincidence as the fact that it had ended as soon as they themselves had left the planet?

“Captain.”  Deanna spoke quietly behind him.  “You came out here to explore the galaxy – to discover the wonderful things it contains.

“That will not necessarily always mean you succeed in _understanding_ everything you discover.”

“What is it?” He gazed towards where he thought it was.  Now it was so much closer, there was a large patch where the stars appeared hazy.  Perhaps what he was seeing was refractions of the real thing.  “Am I being over-imaginative in seeing evidence of some kind of _sentience_ in its behaviour?

“Did it respond to a changed situation on the planet?  Did it somehow sense we were there?  Did it – did it somehow _know_ when the ‘danger’ was past, and there was no need for its intervention?”

“Unless we succeed in establishing some form of communication with it, none of those questions can ever be answered,” she answered.

“This may be a limited opportunity to learn about this – this ‘creature’, if I may term it that.  Data tells me that it appears to be on a collision course with the sun.  We know that it seems able to initiate voluntary movement, but what if it does not recognise its _own_ danger until too late?”

“Then nature will take its course, as it does in every galaxy in the universe where Captain Jean-Luc Picard is not present to intervene.”  Her voice held a rueful smile.

He sighed.  She knew him so well.

“I’ve ordered the comms team to try to establish contact.  We’ve broadcast towards it in every frequency imaginable – even radio waves!  It may hear us, and have no means of communicating back – it may have no means of hearing us at all.  Its ‘sentience’, _if_ it _is_ sentient, may be too rudimentary to encompass communication as we understand it, or so complex that our methods are on a par with a pair of hands beating on a hollow log.

“And down on the planet, those two human beings – possibly three – were able to communicate telepathically with animals with whom they had no evolutionary connection.  How could that have happened?  Could that have been some, some _outcome_ , some _gift_ , of the phenomenon?  Along with that fantastically extended life span?”

“You’re still very troubled about Lieutenant Reed,” she said compassionately.

For a moment he said nothing.  Then he came back and sat down, and picked up the wine again.  “The law, and my duty as a Starfleet officer, gave me no choice.  I had to take him back into custody.

“But I cannot help the reflection that in obeying my duty as a Starfleet officer I failed in my duty as a human being.”

Deanna accorded that sorrowful and honest admission a respectful silence.  “I’ve already discussed the outcome with the doctor,” she said at last.  “She believes that you allowed Mister Reed to finally die in peace.  I’m not sure that counts as a failure.”

“But I didn’t go there with that intention.  I went there to arrest him and tear him away from the only home he’s known for only two centuries, and deliver him over to have his last days made wretched when it was plain he was too old and ailing to ever stand trial, _even if_ he lived long enough to face an arraignment!  Where was my compassion, my humanity?  Are ‘duty’ and ‘orders’ really a good enough excuse for a dereliction of all human kindness?”

“Did the lieutenant himself accuse you of that?”

She already knew the answer of course.  His memory recreated the emaciated figure in that worn, patched uniform he’d seen only in the Starfleet museum; it could not possibly have survived two hundred years of constant wear.  Like the autumn trees, Reed had put on his pomp to die.  “No,” he said slowly.  “Almost his first words were ‘duty before everything’.”

He took a sip of the wine.  It was very good, if not one that Robert would have called a top vintage.  ‘Not a great wine, but nearly a great wine.’

Still holding her own glass in her hands, his companion leaned forward earnestly.  “You were tempted to lie, weren’t you?  To tell Starfleet you went down to the planet and found Reed dead, and therefore no action could be taken against him.”

“I considered it,” he admitted.  “When I finally saw him, it was so nearly the truth that even now I don’t know whether I could have brought myself to give the order to bring him on board. 

“Perhaps I would be finding it easier to live with myself now if I had told that lie from the start, and saved everyone a great deal of suffering.”

She shook her head.  “Your integrity is part of what you _are_ , Captain.  You would have bought a cheap solution with an expensive coin, and sooner or later you would have understood that both you and Lieutenant Reed had been cheated.”  She paused.  “You argued with Admiral Hanson about those orders, didn’t you?”

He grimaced.  Indeed he had – passionately, though he hadn’t revealed that fact to anyone.

“But if you had told the truth, that he was still alive, but that on humanitarian grounds you refused to act, then Starfleet would have acted.  Now they knew where he was, they would have sent someone else, and the whole affair could have ended in real tragedy – for everyone concerned.”  She went on, overriding his response.  “Ultimately the result would have been worse, not better.  Your career would have been damaged and Reed would have been taken by force.  You allowed him to surrender freely, gave him back his pride, his honour.  That mattered a great deal to him.  I _know_ that.”  Another pause, and then her warm smile broke out.  “But Jean-Luc, I think you must be the only person on this ship who actually believes you would have given the order to bring that poor man back to Earth.”

He looked across the top of the wine-glass at her, feeling her belief in his integrity spread through him like relief from acute pain.  Of course he couldn’t have done it.  He would have ordered Reed to remain where he was and fought the consequences, whatever they might have been.  But still the decision to disobey an outright order from a superior officer would have been an agony, and he acknowledged that fact by admitting quietly that he was devoutly thankful that he’d been spared it.  “If everyone else mistakes me for some kind of white knight, maybe it’s vanity that I’m grateful nobody will ever know just how terrible making that choice would have been,” he ended wryly.

Nevertheless, that truth of what he _would_ have done had better not find its way into the official records.  He smiled back at his companion, and deftly turned the subject.  “Deanna, tell me honestly.  Do you sense – _anything_ from that phenomenon out there?”

Now it was her turn to rise and walk to the viewing port.

“I don’t know for certain,” she said at last.  “Nothing that ... I can put my finger on as unique to it _as an entity_.  Thoughts?  No.  Just ... wisps of feeling over the past couple of hours, so faint that sometimes I wonder if I’m imagining it.

“These may be its own feelings, or they may simply be mirrors of what it perceives in others.  I’ve been trying to identify which, but when I said to you earlier about accepting our own inability to understand everything....” She gave a small shrug.  “Maybe I was talking to myself as much as to you.”

The memory came back to him of Son’s response to Katherine’s question of whether he’d called his brother wolves to meet him at the landing site: ‘Not call ... feel.’

“And do you sense anything from it now?” he asked.

For a moment she didn’t answer.  He could almost feel her stretching out across the void with all her psionic sensitivity, seeking out any faint tendrils of contact with this vast, amorphous energy cloud that he was fast becoming to think of as indeed an entity.

“Contentment,” she said at last.  “Relief that the pain is over.”

“You think it may actually comprehend suffering?”

“Who knows?  I can’t even tell if these are _its_ thoughts at all.  It may be simply reflecting those of others, though I don’t think so.  I think it feels, shares.  Without questioning, simply accepting and experiencing.”

“Fascinating.”  He joined her at the viewing port and stared out at the curve of the planet below, beyond which the brightness of its star was steadily increasing as _Enterprise_ continued her geosynchronous orbit.  “I’ve already sent in our preliminary findings about it to Starfleet,” he added after a moment.  “I suppose there’ll be a lot more questions asked when the news gets out, particularly as regards its possible ability to extend life, but this system’s proximity to the Klingon Empire renders the prospect of further study somewhat delicate, to say the least.  I’ve been half-expecting a visit from a suspicious Bird of Prey ever since we arrived.

“But–” he sighed – “at least the historians can draw a line under that old mystery of Lieutenant Reed’s disappearance at last.”

“But the truth will never be known.  Of what Reed was supposed to have done.”

“That information was kept confidential, under Starfleet’s criminal investigative jurisdiction.” Jean-Luc hesitated, but he knew that Troi was trustworthy.  He had already given her some of the details of the story; now he would give her the rest.  “Admiral Hanson revealed some of the details to me.  From Reed’s initial statements, taken on board the NX-01 at the time of his initial arrest – probably in absence of, or defiance of, the advice of Starfleet’s JAG lawyers, who would have known the captain could do their legal case more harm than good by interrogating the suspect on his own account.  The results of this interrogation were kept pending the trial, which of course will never happen now.

“Apparently Reed and his immediate superior officer, Commander Charles Tucker, were carrying out tests in one of the NX-01’s shuttlepods when they encountered wreckage that led them both to believe that the ship had crashed in an asteroid field, killing all on board.

“They were alone, many light-years from the nearest friendly planet.  Their oxygen supply had been compromised and their communications system was malfunctioning.  After making every effort to survive for as long as they could in the hope of rescue, they were slowly dying from oxygen deprivation and cold.

“According to Reed’s testimony, he decided that it was his duty – the duty of kindness – to spare Commander Tucker the horrors of death by asphyxiation.  Therefore he attacked him with a knife, and killed him, approximately ten minutes before _Enterprise_ arrived.  The ship had been absent on a humanitarian mission, and the wreckage in the asteroid field had been that of the ship whose occupants they rescued.”

“Oh, no,” she said softly.

“According to the testimony of others, Reed regarded Tucker as his greatest friend.  He was a shy man, and probably rather a lonely one.  But Charles Tucker was one of those men who have the gift of friendship.  He seems to have drawn Reed out of his shell.  Maybe if that friendship had never developed, Reed would never have felt driven to act in the way he did: as he saw it, saving his friend from a slow and agonising death.”

“But it was still murder.”

“According to the law, certainly.  Lieutenant Reed thought about what he was doing, acted on those thoughts and killed Commander Tucker.  He committed a premeditated crime.  First degree murder.

“The only hope his defence attorney would have had would have been to argue for the offence to be accepted as either voluntary or involuntary manslaughter.  Starfleet’s legal team had already accepted that that would probably be the case if he pleaded guilty at the Court Martial, as he almost certainly would have done if by any remote chance he had been declared fit to stand trial.  But in the event, the trial never took place and the statement may never see the light of day.”  He sighed.  “He was trying to say something right at the end.  His last words were ‘I only wish – that history–’.”

“History will remember him as a murderer.” Deanna was grieved.  “He acted out of kindness, but because the trial never happened, nobody will know why he did what he did.”

“Or who brought him here, or why.  Presumably the same people who put that beacon in orbit – to warn off anyone who might come upon the place and potentially rescue him and Ensign Sato.”

“Sato.  Yes.  Her presence puzzles me.”  She turned to face him, her dark eyes wide and luminous.  “Why was s _he_ here?  She’d committed no crime.  And what was that shuttle’s mission?  Did they strand the two of them here and crash on take-off?”

“I don’t know who brought her here,” the captain responded grimly, “but I intend to find out.  Whether she came willingly – I can only hope so; certainly she was deeply loved.

“As for the shuttle, Son spoke about it.  Whoever was in it had come back for her, but Reed and the wolves would not allow her to be taken away from them.  The wolves defended her, and Reed presumably sabotaged the shuttle.  At a guess, he did not intend to allow whoever was flying it to have a second try.”  His mouth twisted.  “A Starfleet satellite and a Starfleet shuttle.  There must be answers somewhere, and I’m going to find them.”

“That could be dangerous, even now.  We don’t know who was behind this – or that they no longer have influence.”

“I have no intention of refraining from trying to right a wrong for fear of ‘offending the wrong people’, Counsellor.  Whatever happened here, there are too many indications that Starfleet were _somehow_ implicated.  I intend to put some very searching questions to the Admiralty Board.  There are some good men on it who will realise how very serious this matter is.  Hopefully, some answers will be found – even if those responsible for what happened to Sato and Reed are now beyond the reach of the courts, their conduct may yet be exposed for judgement at the bar of history.

“Furthermore,” he continued, turning back to the warmth and light of the room, “I intend to see that as much as possible of the circumstances of Tucker’s death are released as a matter of public record.  Naturally the respective families will have to be consulted and their permission obtained, but I believe they will be glad to have the matter set straight, once and for all.

“I believe that was what Reed was trying to say at the end: that he was sorry that history would judge him without access to the full facts.  If it rests with me, history _will_ have the facts.  And Starfleet will have to endure the consequences.”

“ _‘Fiat justitia, ruat c_ _ælum’_ ,” she quoted, her eyes gleaming.

“In this case – yes.”  He picked up his glass again.  “I’ll propose a toast.

“To the truth.  May it always be victorious.”

The crystal rims clinked softly in the silent room.

And in the vase on the coffee table between them, the one open lily flower still bent gracefully over, admiring its own reflection.

**THE END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are really, really appreciated...


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